PZ 
3 


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. 


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THE  IDLER  OF  THE  ALPS,  AND  HIS  WANDERINGS.    By  DONALD  MAC 
LEOD.    1  vol.  12iuo,  cloth.    $1  25. 

"  We  have  certainly  since  Thacakary,  liad  no  such  pleasant  tourist ;  incidents,  adventures, 
comic  as  well  as  serious,  anecdotes,  descriptions,  poetry,  and  satire  are  most  happily  inter, 
mingled,  and  the  result  is  as  delightful  a  volume  for  a  sumn.er  day  or  a  winter  evening  as 
•we  have  seen  for  a  long  time." — Philadelphia  Evening  bulletin. 

"  This  is  an  eminently  clever  and  readable  work,  which  we  venture  to  predict  will  at 
once  secure  its  author  a  distinguished  place  among  American  writers.  It  is  a  fi&e  tissue 
of  humour,  wit  and  adventure,  pathos  and  description,  woven  into  just  enough  of  acting  and 
moving  story  to  create  a  lively  interest." — Graham's  Magazine. 

"This  is  a  work  of  decided  genius;  witty,  observant,  finely  descriptive  and  poetical,  - 
a  kind  of  travelling  idyl,  sung  out  easily,  and  for  the  pleasure  of  singing,  by  one  whose 
heart  was  full  of  the  stir,  associations,  and  beauty  of  European  life." — N.  Y.  Evangelist. 

"  This  is  no  ordinary  book.  It  is  written  by  one  who  has  the  eye  and  the  heart  of  a 
true  poet ;  and  the  transatlantic  scenes  which  pass  in  review  before  the  writer  are  touched 
with  corresponding  lights  and  shadows,  making  each  one  of  them  a  picture,  and  every 
picture  a  gem." — Knickerbocker  Magazine. 

"A  kind  of  prose  Childo  Harold,  in  which  the  choice  scenes  of  a  Continental  Tour  are 
etrurg  upon  the  silken  thread  of  a  graceful  and  lively  narrative." — Christian  Inquirer, 

"  Tliis  is  a  quaint,  chatty,  and  graphic  book  of  travels,  full  of  gems  of  pathos,  humour, 
fancy,  and  brilliant  delineation," — Watchman  and  Observer. 

"This  is  a  charming  book,  abounding  with  wit  and  humour,  but  abounding  also  in 
genuine  pathos. — Hampshire  Gazette. 

"The  writer  seems  to  have  seen  every  thing  worth  seeing,  and  he  has  depicted  it  all 
here,  with  a  genius,  with  a  wit,  with  a  discrimination,  and  with  a  poetical  fancy  that  will 
challenge,  andavin  the  attention  arid  admiration  of  the  reader." — Baltimore  Patriot. 

"  The  author  is  a  man  of  education  and  practice,  and  swings  his  pen  with  a  free  and 
easy  dash,  that  is  as  amusing  and  captivating,  as  it  is  ingenious  and  effective,"— ^pringfieWi 
Republican. 

"The  work  evinces  great  power  of  imagination  and  of  description ;  and  the  writer  sectiii 
equally  in  his  element  whether  he  is  describing  the  overpowering  grandeur  of  the  Alps,  or 
a  iudicrous  scene  in  a  stage  coach." — Albany  Argus. 

"  .fynnshurst  is  quite  as  good  in  its  way  as  the  famous  "Reveries  of  a  Bechelor,"  and  If 
we  are  not  mistaken  in  the  public  taste,  is  destined  to  as  wide  a  circulation.  It  must 
become  the  book  for  the  watering-places  this  season." — Arthur's  Home  Gazette, 

"A  series  of  brilliant  pictures,  daguereotyped  from  scenes  as  they  passed,  with  a  vivid 
ness  and  dramatic  life,  that  let  us  into  the  reality  as  perfectly  as  if  we  had  passed  through 
the  same  experiences." — Home  Journal. 

"Pynnshurst  will  be  read  with  more  than  ordinary  pleasure  by  whoever  can  appreciate 
•  well  of  English,  pure  and  undefiled,  drawn  ou*.  by  talent,  ready  observation,  quick  per 
ception,  and  fine  taste." — Columbian  and  Great  West. 

"  This  volume  is  as  fine  a  specimen  of  what  may  be  called  the  '  Romance  of  Travel,'  as 
we  have  ever  met  with.  All  his  descriptions  are  wonderfully  vivid,  and  he  is  one  of  those 
travellers  that  are  constantly  meeting  with  singular  adventures,  some  simply  amusing, 
some  comical,  and  others  absolutely  thrilling."  -Troy  Jiudaet. 

"The  author  has  a  lively  fancy,  a  quick  wit,  and  a  genial  heart;  likes  legendary  lore, 
understands  life,  affects  Saxon  English,  and  hits  off  portraits  capitally."— JV.  Y.  Courier 
and  Enquirer. 


LIFE  OF   SIR   WALTER    SCOTT.     By  DOICALD  MAC-LEOD.     1  vol.  12rao.  with 
Portrait.    $1. 

"  This  is  a  model  biography.  The  author  has  delineated  the  character  of  him  once 
styled  the  Great  Unknown,  so  that  all  who  read  these  pages  may  know  him  and  cher 
ish  for  him  a  personal  attachment." — Christian  Intelligencer. 

"This  is  a  most  delightful  and  even  fascinating  volume.  Its  fascination  consists  in 
the  clear  flow  of  its  narration,  warm  with  a  glowing  love  for  its  subject,  and  all  over 
gemmed  with  racy  and  sparkling  anecdote. 

"  It  tells  the  story  of  the  great  wizard's  life  with  simple  directness,  condensing  the 
more  elaborate  narratives  of  others,  and  culling  from  them  only  the  more  salient  and 
spicy  facts  of  his  biography,  thus  making  it  one  of  the  agreeable  books  of  the  season." 
Watchman  and.  Observer. 

"We  can  but  commend  this  work  to  our  readers  as  one  of  unflagging  interest,  from 
the  beginning  to  the  end  ;  written  in  language  simple  but  often  exceedingly  pictur 
esque,  and  always  in  keeping  with  the  particular  theme  in  hand." — Knickerbocker 


"A  fresher,  pleasanter,  more  vivacious  biography  we  have  seldom  read." — Temp. 
Courier. 

"  We  should  not  be  surprised  if  this  Life  of  the  '  Author  of  Waverley  '  finds  as  many 
readers  as  any  thing  which  has  before  been  written  about  the  true  '  Wizard  of  the 
North.'  " — The  Presbyterian. 

"It  is  written  with  great  care  and  judgment,  and  portrays  the  remarkable  career  of 
the  great  novelist,  with  an  exactness  and  fidelity  that  renders  it  as  valuable  as  a  work 
of  reference,  as  it  is  interesting  in  its  subject." — Home  Gasette. 

"  With  a  loving,  reverential  spirit,  and  a  fair  power  of  discernment,  he  has  drawn 

a  graceful  outline  of  the  personal  life  and  character  of  Sir  Walter.    It  is  peculiarly  a 

( book  for  the  people,  and  as  such  has  its  charms  ;  and  yet  no  one,  however  familiar  he 

"may  be  with  the  Great  Magician  of  the  North,  will  read  it  without  pleasure."— 2f.  Y. 

Courier  and  Enquirer. 

"  This  is  the  very  book  to  be  in  the  hands  of  every  lover  of  biography,  and  every 
admirer  of  the  genius  of  the  great  and  good  Scott." — 2f.  Y.  Mirror. 


AMERICAN   LITERATURE  AND    MANNERS.     By  PHILARETTE    CHASLES, 
Prof,  in  the  College  of  France.    1  vol.  12mo.    $1. 

Lively,  Philosophical,  and  Discriminating  Criticisms  on  American  Authors  in  every 
Department  in  Literature,  viz  :  Audubon,  Bryant,  Brockden,  Brown,  Cooper,  Emerson, 
Jonathan  Edwards,  Longfellow,  Benjamin  Franklin,  Gouverneur  Morris,  Haliburton, 
Hoffman,  Irving,  Jefferson,  Melville,  Paulding,  Puffer  Hopkins,?  etc.,  etc.,  with  Chap 
ters  on  American  Politics,  American  Manners,  American  Travellers,  English  Travel 
lers  in  America,  American  Women,  the  Future  of  America,  etc.  etc. 

"  This  brilliant  and  vigorous  volume  should  be  read  for  its  happy  flashes  of  original 
thought."— Graham's  Magazine. 

"  The  author  shows  a  wonderfully  profound  acquaintance  with  our  best  authors,  and 
goes  often  deep  into  the  philosophy  of  our  manners  and  institutions.  The  style  is  al 
ways  sprightly,  and  combines  the  vividness  of  poetry  with  the  depth  of  philosophy."— 
Christian  Intelligencer. 


THIED    THOUSAND. 

THE  SECTOR  OF  ST.  B ARD9LPH  S ;  OE,  SUPERANNUATED.    By  F.  W.  SHEL- 
TON,  A.  M.    1  vol.  12ino.  price  $1. 

Though  its  hero  is  a  parson,  the  story  is  not  what  is  technically  called  a  "religious  novel." 
It  is  far,  however,  from  being  an  irreligious  one.  Mr.  Shelton,  while  giving  his  satire  full 
play  with  the  oddities  of  human  nature,  the  humors  of  the  choir,  the  scandal  of  the  tea- 
table,  the  eccentricities  of  parsons,  the  petty  annoyances  to  which  the  Kector  is  subjected 
from  carping  parishioners,  the  potency  of  crack  sermons,  knows  how  to  treat  sacred 
things  with  becoming  respect" — Literary  World. 

"  We  knew  this  must  be  a  book  worth  reading  when  we  saw  the  author's  name.  His 
pen  makes  marks  that  we  love  to  see." — New  York  Observer. 

"  What  most  strikes  one  in  this  book  is  the  quiet,  penetrative,  microscopic  analysis  of 
character.  The  author  daguerreotypes.  There  are  all  sorts  of  people  in  this  book; 
American  Mrs  Jellabys,  who  "keeps  their  eyes  fixed  on  Africa;"  Dorcas  Society  people 
volunteer  female  choristers ;  the  advisers,  theologians,  polemicals  and  outside  chantarians, 
and  all  are  well  painted  by  that  exquisite  pen  which  warned  us  in  "  Salander,"  and  delights 
as  in  "  Letters  from  up  the  River." — Knickerbocker. 

"  This  simple  but  beautiful  sketch  is  worthy  a  place  in  literature  by  the  side  of  the  "  Vi 
car  of  Wakefield  "  and  the  "  Poor  Vicar." — Newburyport  Herald. 

"  Almost  another  Vicar,  as  described  by  Zschokke  or  Goldsmith." — Evening  Mirror. 

"Characterized  by  the  peculiarities  of  this  favorite  and  delightful  writer." — Efapress, 

"  There  is  a  good  deal  of  the  texture  of  Episcopacy  running  through  the  book,  and  one 
or  two  very  hard  things  are  said  of  Calvinism,  but  the  latter  things  may  be  forgiven,  on 
the  ground  that  the  writer  does  not  seem  to  have  been  well  read-up  in  Cslvinistic  theolo  - 
gy.  Take  it  altogether,  it  is  very  true  to  the  real  life  of  many  of  the  clergy." — Presbyterian. 

"  If  any  one  loves  a  quiet,  simple  narrative — a  kind  of  combination  of  Goldsmith  and 
Miss  Edgeworth,  but  a  first  stratum  below  the  combination— this  book  will  suit  his  or  her 
taste," — New  Orleans  Daily  Crescent. 

"Mr.  Shelton  is  a  charming  writer,  and  this  is  his  best  book  yet" — National  democrat 

"One  whose  writings  discover  a  profound  knowledge  of  men  and  things."— Albany 
Argus. 

"He  has  a  ready  and  inexhaustible/und  of  humor  in  the  genuine  article,  pure  and  fresh 
as  the  honey  from  Mount  Hybla" — Mobile  Advertiser. 

"  This  volume  has  a  thousand  hits.'1 — Poittand  Christian  Mirror. 

"  The  venerable  rector  has  a  kind  of  Vicar  of  Wakefield  simplicity.  It  would  be  a  good 
book  for  every  church  library,  and  not  a  few  would  find  their  lineaments  reflected  in  its 
life-like  pages." — N.  Y.  Evangelist. 

"  The  characters  are  sharply  cut,  and  stand  out  with  a  prominence  that  mark  the  hand 
of  a  master." — Daily. 

"  We  are  glad  once  more  to  take  up  a  book  by  the  author  of  Salander.  He  is  an  origi 
nal  thinker  and  a  vigorous  writer,  and  his  works  have  always  some  hidden  meaning  or 
moral  that  exercises  the  reader's  ingenuity." — St.  Louis  Presbyterian, 


MR.  F.  W    SHELTON'S  NEW  WORK. 

UP  THE  RIVER.  By  F.  W.  SHELTON,  1  vol.  12mo.  With  36  elegant  engravings  from 
original  designs.  $1  25. 

"  It  is  full  of  the  country :  trees,  wave,  and  the  sweet  breath  of  the  new-mown  hay  is 
therein,  with  touches  of  pathos,  humor,  and  good-hearted  feelings,  while,  through  all,  in  a 
hidden  stream  of  melody,  like  a  clear  rill,  tuns  the  ever-varying,  cunning,  facile  style  of 
one  of  the  most  captivating  imagery  writers  of  the  day." — N.  Y.  Daily  Times. 

"Chatting  of  every  day  country  life  in  a  style  of  freshness  and  navicte." — N.  Y.  Tribune. 

"  There  are  few  books  in  which  the  English  language  is  written  with  such  purity  and 
taste,  and  we  cordially  commend  tbis  book  to  all  who  love  'the  charms  which  nature  to 
her  votary  yields.''— Springfield  Republican. 


VENICE  THE  CITY  OF  THE  SEA.  From  the  Invasion  of  Napoleon  in  1797  to 
the  Capitulation  to  Eadetzky  in  1819.  With  a  coternporaneous  view  of  the  Peninsula. 
By  Edmund  Flagg,  late  Consul  of  the  United  States  at  the  Port  of  Venice.  2  vols. 
12ino,  with  Map  and  seven  Engravings.  $2  50.  2d  edition. 

"  lie  has  put  forth  a  work,  which  for  clearness  of  diction  and  elegance  of  style,  for  order 
and  method  in  its  arrangement,  for  the  perspicuity  of  its  military  details,  and  for  its  display 
of  an  intimate  knowledge  of  the  historical  and  political  events  to  be  recorded,  is  hacdly 
equalled  by  any  similar  work  of  the  present  day.  This  history,  in  the  romantic  interest 
which  attaches  to  the  City  of  the  'Terrible  Ten.'  and  in  its  details  of  heroic  valor  and  en 
during  fortitude  in  the  midst  of  famine  and  bombardment,  cf  pestilence  and  blockade, 
will  favorably  corapaie  with  Prescott's  Conquest  of  Mexico/'—  WasJiinyton  Union. 

"Mr.  Flagg's  elegant  production  is  the  result  of  several  years  of  experience,  study  and 
compilation  of  all  that  is  most  lovely  and  romantic  of  that  charming  and  supernatural 
City  of  Venice,  The  painting  of  scenes  and  incidents  in  the  City  of  the  Sea,  has  a  great 
deal  of  the  grace  and  the  gentle  beauty  of  Washington  Irving's  most  familiar  and  popular 
writings." — St  Louis  Intelligencer. 

"  When  we  opened  Mr.  Flagg's  book  we  found  a  carefully  compiled,  poetically  written 
digest  of  tho  history  of  that  glorious  old  Venice,  its  Doges,  its  Councils,  its  glory  and  its 
loves,  and  a  passionate,  thrilling,  yet  accurate  and  sympathising  account  of  the  last  struggle 
for  Independence.'' — The  Knickerbocker. 

'•  These  volumes  exhibit  thorough  research,  careful  observation,  and  a  discriminating  use 
of  materials.  The  style  is  animated,  and  the  descriptive  passages  are  sometimes  highly 
graphic  and  picturesque." — Jf.  Y.  Independent. 

"He  writes  with  frankness  and  intelligence,  never  grows  prosy;  and  his  vivid  portrait 
ures  impress  themselves  on  the  memory." — 2f.  Y.  Tribune. 

'•Mr.  Flagg  has  embodied  in  these  volumes  information  concerning  Venice  which  has 
long  been  sought  for.  They  will  prove  invaluable  to  the  student  as  well  as  to  the  politi 
cian,  as  books  of  reference.  This  work  is  written  in  a  graceful  and  pleasing  style,  not 
stiffly  historical  nor  too  highly  wrought— but  truthful  and  forcible.  No  Library  will  be 
complete  without  this  book." — Buffalo  Journal. 

"  These  handsome  volumes  are  full  of  interest  and  instruction,  combining  as  they  do 
many  of  the  excellencies  and  advantages  of  history  and  travels." — Boston  Traveller. 

"One  of  the  most  sprightly  and  entertaining  works  issued  from  the  press  of  modern 
times" — N.  Y.  Atlas. 

"The  author  has  treated  his  romantic  iheme  with  the  admiration  of  the  poet,  and  yet 
with  the  fullness  of  information  and  ;  ccuracy  of  the  historian." — Putnam's  Magazine. 

"These  volumes  give  with  the  romance  all  the  solid  facts,  the  sober  reality  of  a  city 
•which  has  not  its  parallel  in  the  world.'' — American  Courier. 

"This  work  is  more  than  a  mere  history.  It  is  a  graphic  account  of  the  present  condi 
tion  of  Venice,  its  churches,  public  buildings,  institutions,  social  customs  and  political  af 
fairs.  *  *  *  Mr.  Fla<:g  writes  like  a  scholar  of  refined  taste,  and  like  a  historian  of 
sound  .judgment"— Evening  Bulletin. 

"This  is  the  most  thorough  and  satisfactory  account  of  Venice,,  that  we  have  ever  met — 
we  suspect  the  best  in  the  English  language,  or  probably  in  any  other.'' — Albany  Argus. 

"Mr.  Flagg  writes  like  a  scholar  of  refined  taste  and  like  a  historian  of  sound  judg 
ment.  His  book  is  deeply  interesting  as  a  narrative  and  highly  valuable  as  a  contribution 
to  history."—  Philadelphia,  Evening  Bulletin. 

"  It  is  the  only  reliable  account  yet  published  of  the  late  memorable  seige  of  Venice, 
fully  and  impartially  chronicled— gemmed  with  anecdotes  and  traits  of  character  and  as 
interesting  as  a  romance.'' — Times. 

"  This  book  will  be  read  and  quoted  when  many  a  better  one  is  forgotten.  It  is  valua 
ble."— #  Y.  DaMy  Times. 

THE  CZAB:  HIS  COTJET  AND  PEOPLE,  Including  a  tour  in  Norway>nd  Sweden. 
By  JOHN  8.  MAXWELT,  pp.  868.  1  vol.  12mo. 


•. 


*    V 


THE 


BLOODSTONE. 


BY 


tat  f  Mr, 


ATJTHOB  OP  "  PYNNSHURST,"  "Lira  OP  SIB  WALTBB 
SCOIT,"  ETC. 


NEW  YORK: 
_f  , 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER,  145  NASSAU  STREET. 


1853. 


, 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress  in  the  year  1853,  by 
CHARLES  SCRD3NER, 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the 
Sou  hern  District  Df  New  York. 


TOBITT'S  COMBINATION-TYPE, 
181  William-st. 


.* . 

f-  * 

* 


*  '     >'  V 

' 


TO 

-0  1U 

MY  BELOVED  AND  ONLY  SISTER, 

AS   A    MARK    OF     THANKS 


THIS    BOOK   IS 
AFFECTIONATELY    INSCRIBED. 


* 


*- 


,„ 


PREFA  CE. 


MY  DEAR  SISTEB: 

As  this  book  is  dedicated  to  you,  and  as  you  are  the 
only  affectionate  and  uncritical  reader  of  whom  I  feel  very 
sure,  it  is  proper  that  any  necessary  word  of  explanation 
should  be  said  to  you. 

During  my  residence  on  the  Rhine,  in  1850,  much 
of  my  time  was  gpent  in  quaint  old  Andernach,  and  one 
of  my  favorite  haunts  was  precisely  such  a  ruined  keep 
as  I  have  described  in  the  following  pages.  Many  a  long 
hour  of  reverie  have  I  spent  within  its  cedar-crested,  ivy- 
hung  dilapidated  walls :  many  a  time  have  I  dreamed  of  ' 
it  since  my  return,  and  the  chief  incident  in  this  story, 
told  in  'Chapter  XV.,  was  a  veritable  "vision  of  the 
night." 


vi.  PREFACE. 

Andernach,  the  ruin  and  its  name,  are  the  only  reali 
ties  I  can  offer  you.  For  the  rest,  a  distempered  dream, 
worked  out  by  after  meditation,  makes  up  this  story,  such 
as  it  is. 

In  the  early  portions  of  the  work  you  will  recognize 
some  old  familiar  places  and  scenes,  well  known  to  the 
childhood  of  both  of  us.  It  may  be  too  that  you  will 
recognize  one  or  more  portraits.  Be  that  as  it  may,  you 
will  be  a  gentle  reader,  and  will  wish  well  to  this  new 
renture  of 

YOTJB,  AFFECTIONATE  BKOTHEK. 
NEW  YOIIK,  Oct.  4th,  1853. 


^ZW*    *       •'         ''' 

1f 

;V*V,*'<r»i,  ,_        "-*i 


j:    * 


CONTENTS. 


I.  Introductory   * 11 

II.  Reminiscences 14 

• 

III.  Home  Friends 21 

v  «*  .  •  •    '          • 

IV.  Corrumbling       ...'*...        32 

V.  Character    .  ...  .41 

'  •         1  .  «.-    . 

VI.  Leaving  Home  •»*        .        .        .        64 

VII.  UeberSee    .        ,_^.        .        .        .     "   .        68 

f* 
80 

"  •    *•  *  *  ri 

IX.  The  Bloodstone 91 

X.  Misunderstandings      .  ^^B*- ...        98 
XL        Cleared  Up    J    ,1      ^  .  115 

r  ^  *» 

XII.  Initiation 123 

XIII.  Woe  and  Joy      J^%.        ...        .136 

XIV.  The  Spots  upon  the  Bloodstone  .        .        .147 

»  A  " 


CONTENTS. 

XV       Results 160 

XVI.  The  Power  of  one  Hasty  Deed   .        .        .  171 

XVII.  Caspar  Hefferman     .  .        .        .        .        .179 

XVHI.  Mother  and  Sister 189 

XIX.  The  Last  Trial 200 

XX.  Conclusion   .......  210 


-  -fc. 

V* 


*^, 


THE  BLOODSTONE. 


|  r  Hat  i  ah 

YES,  I,  Paul  Calvert,  will  wi'ite  a  history 
of  my  own  life  :  a  story  of  the  passions, 
joys,  sorrows,  accidents,  incidents,  observations 
and  circumstances  which  have  concurred  in 
making  up  my  existence,  that  drop  in  the  ocean 
of  eternity. 

To  feel  the  desire  of  writing  such  a  book,  is 
a  very  good  sort  of  reason  for  doing  it.  What  my 
heart  has  felt,  your's  can  feel.  Some  one  has 
probably  jostled  you  just  as  I  have  -been  jostled  • 


•    •*  .    *   «     •     « 

12  THE    BLOODSTONE. 

has  pleased  you  just  as  I  have  been  pleased. 
"We  are  both  men,  fond  of  what  is  pleasant  to  us, 
sorrowful  at  what  incommodes  us.  We  are  broth 
ers,  walking  with  more  or  less  wisdom,  more  or 
less  bravery,,  through  suffrance  and  enjoyment, 
towards  the  solemn  Hereafter. 

In  a  word,  shall  I  not  touch  your  heart  when 
I  play  upon  the  strings  of  my  own  ?  When  I 
say,  O  friend,  I  too  have  loved  and  acted  and  sor 
rowed  and  enjoyed  ?  For  it  is  true.  I  have  ex 
perienced  most  of  the  feelings  which  we  know  to 
be  human  :  smiles  have  beamed  brightly  upon  my 
face  :  and  big  tears  also  have  rolled  heavily,  in 
deep  mournfulness,  over  my  cheek,  while  the 
strong  painful  throbs  of  my  heart  kept  time  to 
them,  as  the  tap  of  the  muffled  drum  keeps  time 
to  the  falling  drops  when  they  bury  a  soldier  in 
the  rain. 


.      -  ,-f      ;.,      •.**>    '• 

There  are  some  mei.,  who,  when  their  hearts 
are  full,  can  take  a  musical  instrument,  and  on 
the  wings  of  harmony  which  they  evoke  from  it, 
can  float  away  into  pure,  calmer  skies,  higher  up, 
nearer  to  God. 

Others  go  out  into  the  world,  and  play  upon 


V  i  -  Y?'*  ••-'.^-  -*"'• 

PREFATIAL.  13 

that,  many-chorded  harp  which  we  name  society, 
or  they  give  themselves  to  be  played  upon  by  so 
ciety  and  so  empty  out  their  inner  sorrow. 

And  I  find  my  heart  full  and  wish  to  write — A 
human  life,  even  the  humblest  one,  i§  a  solemn 
thing  and  cannot  be  uninstructive.  We  know 
Who  gave  it ;  to  whom  it  shall  be  rendered  ;  and 
there  is  a  deep  and  holy  lesson  in  every  life  his 
tory,  from  that  which  hath  endured  in  its  strong 
grandeur  like  a  centenary  oak,  to  that  which 
only  blossomed  and  vanished  like  a  lily  of  the 
valley  by  the  side  of  a  brook. 


, 


••* 


» 


»   •  >  •  -w* 

>.     TI-.      *^ 


„•••'••"• 


. 
II. 


fT^HERE  are  earlier  recollections  of  me  than 
JL  my  own.  I  have  been  told,  on  creditable 
authority — that  of  my  nurse,  a  worthy  old 
Scotchwoman,  principally  remarkable  for  a  great 
stock  of  patience  and  a  large  mole  upon  her  nose 
• — that  the  first  two  years  of  my  existence  were 
occupied  by  crying  and  eating.  It  is  possible ; 
but  I  do  not  give  it  upon  my  own  respon 
sibility 

I  am  indeed  unwilling  to  commit  myself  to  any 


.   ^    ,       .     .4,  -• 

REMINISCENCES.  15 

statement,  before  the  advent  of  my  first  remem 
bered  jacket  and  trousers,  which  were  devel 
oped,  I  suppose,  about  my  fifth  year.  They  were 
light  grey  with  bell  buttons,  and  were  much 
injured  the  first  day  they  were  worn,  in  conse 
quence  of  a  propensity  of  mine  to  slide  down  the 
roof  of  the  ice-house. 

New  York  was  not  then  what  it  now  is.  I 
remember  that  my  parents,  who  lived  near  the 
Bowling  Green  in  winter,  never  dreamed  of 
walking  to  our  country-seat  at  Greenwich,  and 
if  a  knot  of  boys  made  a  visit  there  during  the 
cold  months  it  was  the  work  of  an  entire  day ; 
and  now  the  most  delicate  walk  four  times  tho 

* 

distance  daily  and  think  nothing  of  it.  After  my 
father's  death,  which  happened  when  I  was  some 
seven  years  old,  the  town  house  was  sold  and  we 
lived  altogether  at  Greenwich,  then  a  sparse 
collection  of  gentlemen's  country  seats,  but  which 
grew  up  rapidly  to  villagehood  and  is  now  almost 
in  the  middle  of  the  city. 

Through  a  long  lane,  full  of  sweet  brier  and 
wild  rose  bushes,  which  ran  through  our  orchard, 
you  reached  the  great  gate  of  the  garden  along 
the  front  of  which  ran  a  double  avenue  of  lom- 
bardy  poplars,  leading  to  the  stables  and  offices; 
but  turning  in  at  the  gate,  you  drove  through 


16  THE    BLOODSTONE. 

another  avenue  of  large  blaek  cherry  trees,  under 
the  shadow  of  which  throve  a  border  of  luxuriant 
box,  up  td  the  large,  wide  porch. 

The  house,  of  two  stories  with  a  basement, 
was  composed  of  two  wings  and  a  famous  old 
fashioned  hall.  In  one  of  the  wings  were  the 
drawing  rooms ;  in  the  other -the  library  and  a 
sleeping  chamber.  Above  this  were  five  pleasant 
rooms,  and  highest  of  all  the  garret,  a  play 
ground  of  unequalled  magnificence,  which  occu 
pied  half  the  floor,  the  other  half  being  a  huge 
mysterious  black  hole  full  of  lumber  and  spooks, 
enterable  only  by  a  door  some  three  feet  square 
cut  high  up  in  the  wall. 

Then  we  bad  the  vast  flat  roof  above  us, 
unrivalled  for  the  flying  of  kites ;  and  priceless 
as  a  vantage  ground  from  whence  to  pelt  any 
casual  interloper  below  with  -hard  apples  and 
turnips.  Here  I  diligently  pursued  the  two 
above  mentioned  amusements,  and  here  I  used 
to  lie  on  my  back  for  hours,  reading  Don  Quix- 
otte,  or  Robinson  Crusoe.  Then  I  would  descend 
and  rob  the  kitchen  of  some  new  tin  pot  or  pan 
which  I  would  vainly  strive  to  fashion  into  a 
helmet,  or  would  retire  into  some  distant  corner 
of  the  grounds,  make  myself  a  desert  island  of 


* 

REMINISCENCES.  17 

my  own,  build  myself  a  cabin,  and  sigh  for  a 
goat,  a  monkey  and  a  man  Friday. 

On  one  single  day,  Robinson  and  the  Don  each 
procured  me  well  boxed  ears — ah  me,  it  is  long 
ago,  but  how  fresh  in  my  memory — the  first 
because  I  cut  up  and  fashioned  a  sleigh  robe  into 
a  dress  of  skins  ;  and  the  second  because  I  split 
a  kitchen  coffee  pot  in  half  to  make  greaves  of, 
as  became  a  would-be  knight  of  la  Mancha. 

All  round  the  house  extended  the  gardens , 
and  beyond  them,  the  fields  for  pasture,  vegeta 
bles  or  grain.  At  the  east  corner  of  the  old 
mansion,  grew  a  gigantic  apple  tree .;  big,  brown 
rusty  coats  it  bore,  and  many  a  day  have  I  per 
illed  my  neck  by  getting  from  the  edge  of  the 
roof  upon  its  branches.  In  other  places  I 
remember  apricot,  pear  and  plum  trees,  and  one 
strange  fruit,  called  the  blood  peach,  shadowed 
the  well. 

In  front,  I  have  said,  at  the  end  of  the  poplar 
walk,  were  the  stables,  and  a  large  thing  called 
the  "  office,"  built  by  somebody  in  yellow  fever 
times,  but  now  surrendered,  the  lower  stories  to 
us  children,  the  upper  to  the  pigeons.  Creeping 
up  among  the  birds  and  looking  out  of  the  holes 
cut  for  their  convenience,  you  saw,  at  the  other 
end  of  the  poplars,  the  porter's  lodge. 


18  THE    BLOODSTONE. 

If,  returning  to  the  house,  you  passed  through 
the  broad  hall,  out  upon  the  long  back  piazza, 
you  looked  through  the  fruit  trees  over  a  sweep 
of  greensward,  across  the  alder-bordered  creek, 
upon  a  very  pretty  scene ;  grainfields,  a  remnant 
of  forest  and  a  visible  country  seat  or  two.  On 
the  left,  the  long  cedar  rows  and  brier  bushes  of 
sentimental  Love  lane  extended;  on  the  right, 
rose  the  majesty  of  Green  hill  crowned  by 
the  Sailors'  Snug  Harbor,  and  the  Stuyvesant 
meadows  stretched  off  towards  East  river ;  and 
looking  straight  forward  from  the  back  piazza 
you  saw  the  tall  old  willows  and  the  low  white 
stones  that  studded  that  "  field  and  acre  of  our 
God,"  where  so  many  of  our  loved  ones  slept, 
loved  ones  who  had  grown  weary  and  were 
lying  there  at  rest. 

And  now  .what  is  there  ?  But  populous  brick 
built  streets ;  thronged  with  trade,  fetid  with  vile 
air ;  full  of  strife  and  mean  envy  and  wild  hate. 
The  brook  is  filled  up,  the  tall  trees  haye  fallen, 
the  flowers  have  long  since  been  rooted  up,  the 
home  of  my  childhoood  is  a  desolate  den  of  pau 
pers,  the  hearts  of  those,  who  loved  me  are  in  the 
dust  of  the  grave,  and  I,  alone,  and  having  much 
suffered,  am  sitting  a  stranger,  on  the  shores  of  the 
Rhine,  recalling  the  gone  days  of  my  childhood. 


REMINISCENCES.  19 

The  brook  that  I  have  spoken  of  is  an  histori 
cal  brook.  It  rose  in  Green  hill,  flowed 
through  Greenwich  'and  emptied  into  the  Hud 
son  :  it  abounded  in  eels,  mud-turtles  and  garter- 
snakes,  its  banks  were  illustrious  for  elderberries 
and  wild  cherries:  its  coffee  colored  summer 
waters  bore  many  a  log  or  impromptu  raft  for 
sailing,  and  in  winter  felt  the  whizzing  of  the 
swift  sled  or  echoed  to  the  ring  of  the  skater's 
iron  heel. 

But  still  it  was  nothing  to  Cedar  Creek,  a  mile 
away,  where  you  could  skate  for  leagues  through 
the  thick,  low  evergreens.  Or  to  Green  Hill  itself 
where  sledding  was  brought  to  a  perfection  which 
it  had  never  before  attained,  and  which  I  sadly 
fear  it  never  will  reach  again.  That  was  our  glo 
rious  battlefield  where  we  waged  relentless  war 
with  Bowery  boys,  in  the  cold  months  with  snow 
balls,  in  summer  with  tomatoes  and  green  apples, 
not  always  unmingled  with  stones.  I  saw  my 
favorite  schoolfellow  struck  down  there  with  a 
fragment  of  flint,  and  even  yet  I  can  see  his  pale 
face  and  his  bright  hair  drenched  in  blood.  He 
was  carried  home  to  his  mother  and  in  a  week  or 
two  he  died. 

Were  not  the  sides  of  that  hill  formed  for 
caves  in  which  to  play  the  robber  ?  Have  they 


. 

9 

£0  THE    BLOODSTONE. 

ever  been  equalled  for  ovens  in  which  to  roast 
plump  apples  and  pilfered  corn?  And  did  not 
I  hide  there  for  one  whole  day  to  escape  the  wrath 
of  my  tutor,  odd,  old  Doctor  Robertson,  an  exag 
gerated  Scotchman,  learnedly  quaint  ?  Peace  be 
with  thee  Doctor,  and  with  thee  his  amiable 
broad-nosed  successor,  Thaddeus  Maloney. — 
Peace  be  with  you  both !  for,  alas,  I  fear  I  gave 
you  but  little  of  it  while  you  were  with  me. 


-*. 


*->•;  v;^-  .*,,  't 
.    •» 


III. 


0m* 


IEECALL  little  of  my  father  beyond  his 
courtly,  tall  figure  and  very  handsome  face, 
and  his  very  great  indulgence  for  me.  I  remem 
ber  his  giving  me  one  profound  castigation  for 
not  returning  a  blow  when  struck  by  a  boy  twice 
my  age,  but,  I  remember  still  better  his  constant 
kindness  and  his  prodigal  generosity.  I  can  see, 
too,  the  daylight  coming  feebly  through  the  dark 
ened  windows  when  he  lay  dead  in  the  library, 
and  the  low  voices  and  soft  tread  of  all  in  the 
house  return  distinctly  to  me  now  as  when  I 
stood  beside  my  mother,  and  looked  up  into 


22  THE    BLOODSTONE. 

her  pale  face,  mute  and  tearless,  in  her  depth 
of  sorrow:  . 

Then  came  the  long  procession,  and  the  new 
black  clothes,  and  the  funeral  paraphernalia,  and 
the  walk  to  the  grave  beneath  the  old  willows. 
Ah,  how  many  times  have  I  taken  that  same 
slow,  mournful  walk  since  then,  until  nearly  all 
my  kindred  had  been  laid  there.  Saddest  of  all 
this,  that  I  shall  not  rest  beside  them. 

From  that  day  my  mother  wore  the  close 
widow's  cap ;  and  the  luxuriant,  black,  silken 
hair  was  hidden  ;  and  the  gloomy  weeds  covered 
her  heart  mournful  but  resigned  in  its  bereave 
ment.  Full  of  all  tender  charities  in  word,  ac 
tion  and  thought  •  loving  and  being  beloved,  she 
lived  on,  gradually  withdrawing  herself  from 
society,  and  devoting  her  life  to  me  and  to  our 
poorer  neighbors.  For  them  she  was  an  '  angel 
visiting  the  earth.'  "  When  the  ear  heard,  then 
it  blessed  her  :  when  the  eye  saw,  it  gave  witness 
to  her,  because  she  delivered  the  poor  that  cried, 
the  fatherless  and  the  helpless.  The  blessing  of 
him  that  was  ready  to  perish  came  upon  her, 
and  she  caused  the  widow's  heart  to  sing  for 

joy." 

I  do  not  know  whether  other  people  have  such 
odd  thoughts  in  the  midst  of  their  sadness  as  I 


HOME    FRIENDS.  23 

have.  I  am  very  affectionate  and  impassioned 
and,  I  believe,  would  die  of  a  great  sorrow  were 
it  not  for  the  funny  ideas  that  get  into  my  head 
in  times  of  deep  affliction. 

I  was  sitting  up  once  at  night  beside  the  body 
of  my  dearest  friend,  and  despite  every  effort  I 
could  make,  could  recall  nothing  of  him  but  the 
droll  things  he  used  to  say  to  me  ;  and  I  felt  the 
smile  upon  my  face,  and  even  several  times  de 
tected  a  low  merry  chuckle.  Once  or  twice  that 
night  somebody  came  in  to  beg  me  to  go  to  bed, 
and  then  the  idea  of  separation  would  awaken  a 
fervent  burst  of  grief;  but  when  I  was  alone 
again,  back  came  the  funny  thoughts ;  and  so  it 
continued  until  he  had  been  buried  two  or  three 
days 

And  now  that  I  am  thinking  of  my  dead  mo 
ther,  I  try  to  recall  some  of  the  many  loving  acts 
of  hers,  yet  for  the  life  of  me  I  cannot  get  out 
of  my  head  one  which  sticks  by  me  and  haunts 
me  as  though  it  were  the  only  one.  It  is  her  con 
solation  in  the  case  of  Mrs.  Booze. 

Mrs.  Booze  was  an  old  lady  who  smelled  of 
peppermint  and  used  to  come  once  a  week  to  see 
us.  I  think  she  had  been  a  schoolmistress  in 
earlier  life.  She  wore  a  large  cap  with  a  puffy 

border,  with  false  black  hair  under  it,  and  im- 

*> 
• 


24  THEBLOODSTONE. 

mense,  round,  tortoise-shell  spectacles,  from  be 
hind  which  glowed  two  fierce  black  eyes. 

Oh,  what  a  horror  I  had  of  that  old  lady  !  She 
used  to  take  me  up  on  her  brown  silk  lap ;  hold  me 
firmly  there  with  hands  which  looked  like  the 
claws  of  the  griffins  in  my  father's  big  books  of 
heraldry,  and,  in  that  position,  make  me  recite 
my  catechism.  I  remember  that  I  used  to  think 
she  was  some  relation  to  Justification,  which  was 
always  my  hard  point. 

"When  I  had  accomplished  my  task  she  used  to 
give  me  three  peppermint  drops,  which  I  would 
take  and  throw  away  behind  the  parlor  organ. 
Alas !  one  day  she  saw  me  and  called  me  back. 

"  Come  here,  little  boy." 

And  when  I  approached,  trembling,  her  claws 
lifted  me  up  upon  her  knees,  and  she  spoke  in 
the  most  unmodulated  and  stony  voice  I  have 
ever  heard,  somewhat  as  follows. 

"  Are  you  a  good  little  boy  ?  No  !  Good 
little  boys  never  throw  away  peppermints. 
Don't  you  know  that  God  does  not  love  little 
boys  who  throw  away  the  necessities  of  life. 
Little  boys  who  throw  away  peppermints  never 
go  to  Heaven !  Get  down,  little  boy." 

Then  she  took  away  her   claws,  and  left  me 


HOMEFB.  IENDS,  25 

without  any  support  upon  her  brown  silk  knees. 
Those  knees  were  very  high,  and  my  round  little 
legs  were  very  short,  and  seemed  to  me  to  be  at 
least  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  the  floor,  so  I  sate 
there  in  terror,  looking  at  a  bunch  of  flowers  in 
the  carpet,  and  wishing  they  would  grow  up  to 
me  as  Jack  the  Giant-Killer's  beanstalk  grew  in 
Nurse  Nanny's  story.  Then  I  felt  myself  slip 
ping  towards  the  point,  and  slowly  and  full  of 
•terror,  I  slid  on  until  after  one  vain  grasp  at  the 
slippery  silk,  off  I  went  crack  upon  her  feet. 

I  thought  from  her  look,  she  was  going  to 
murder  me,  and  began  to  wonder  where  she 
would  hide  my  body,  and  whether  my  mother 
would  ever  find  it,  and  whether  Mrs.  Booze 
would  be  hanged  for  it. 

She  thought  better  of  it,  however,  and  depart 
ed,  leaving  me  to  pace  the  room  thoughtfully, 
and  to  try  to  make  my  short  legs  reach  from  one 
bunch  of  woven  flowers  to  the  other  without 
touching  the  plain  ground  of  the  carpet. 

The  next  time  Mrs.  Booze  paid  us  a  visit,  she 
had  the  recitation  as  usual,  and,  at  the  conclusion 
gave  me  as  reward,  not  three  peppermint  drops, 
but  three  of  those  round,  flat,  white,  hard-pressed 
peppermint  lozenges  which  old  ladies  take  for  the 
3 


.  .. 

26  THE    BLOODSTONE. 

eholic,  which  are  purchasable  only  at  the  apothe 
cary's  shop  and  which  are -so  fearfully  strong. 

As  I  made  a  motion  to  slide  down,  the  claws 
held  me  fust,  and  the  stony  voice  said, 
"  Eat  your  peppermints,  little  boy." 
I  dared  not  disobey,  but  oh,  how  enormously 

.  -ijk  «t     *• 

I  suffered.     The  tears  came  into  my  eyes;  my 
mouth,  throat  and  stomach  were  on  fire,  and  I 

*-       v 

should  indubitably  have  died  of  the  third  lozenge, 
had  my  mother  not  come  in  and  rescued  me.- 

<^         IF          ^  '  * 

Mother  darling,  the  snows  of.  many  a  winter 
have  fallen  upon  thy  grave,  and  my  heart  has 
been  cold  and  desolate  without  thee ;  but  the 
flowers  of  many  a  spring  have  grown  and  bloomed 
above  thee  also,  ns  types  of  resurrection  and 
hopes  that  we  shull  meet  again.  I  never  knew 
any  violets  that  bloomed  so  early  as  those  that 
grew  on  my  mother's  grave.  I  used  to  fancy  it 
was  the  warmth  of  her  heart  that  quickened 
them.  Yet  now  I  can  recall  nothing  but  my 
rescue  from  the  claws  of  the  griffin,  Mrs.  Booze. 
Next  to  my  mother's  memory  comes  that  of 
my  sweet,  brown-eyed,  black-haired  sister  Flora, 
who  strengthened  me  when  I  was  alone,  support 
ed  me  when  I  suffered,  won  me  back  when  1 
strayed,  defended  rne  when  attacked,  loved  me 


HOME    FRIENDS.  27 

*  i  fc  <£ 

through  all  my  fortunes.     It  is   partly  for  her 

that  I  write  this  book  now. 

Other  persons  come  before  me.  One  indis 
tinctly  ;  my  mother's  maid,  called  by  her  Mar 
tha  ;  but  the  rest  of  the  household  named  her 
Marthy,  all  save  old  black  Soc  who  called  her 
Martyr.  Of  her  I  only  remember  that  she  was 
kind  to  me  and  very  pretty,  that  her  uncle  was  a 
milkman,  and  that  one  day  she  got  married  to  a 
man  with  one  eye  who  had  been  a  soldier,  and 
was  to  me  something  between  Cesar  and  the 
Duke  of  Marl  borough. 

More  distinctly  can  I  see  thy  face,  0  faithful- 
lest  of  friends,  my  good  old  Soc.  He  had  been 
my  grandmother's  coachman,  and  was  now 
whatever  he  chose  to  be — gardener,  porter, 
groom,  waiter,  or  my  own  especial  valet.  The 
lord  of  the  kitchen,  the  stable-yard  and  the  play 
ground  ;  ranking  in  his  own  estimation  imme 
diately  after  his  mistress,  looking  upon  Flora  and 
myself  as  dependent  for  our  existence  upon  his 
guardianship,  and  considering  the  rest  of  the 
household  as  very  immeasurably  inferior  to  him 
self. 

He  had  been  baptized   Socrates,  but  the  name 
had  been  found  too  long,  and,  after  undergoing 


28  THE    BLOODSTONE. 

the  gradations  of  Socky,  Cratty  and  Ratty,  had 
at  last  settled  down  into  Soc.  He  was  an  un 
commonly  black  nigger ;  not  shiny,  but  a  dead 
black,  a  lamp-black,  all  but  the  palms  of  his 
hands,  which  were  tha  color  of  dried  orange-peel. 
He  had  beautiful  eyes,  as  large,  soft,  loving  and 
dark  as  ever  beamed  from  the  sockets  of  a  ga 
zelle  ;  but  his  black  hide  made  the  white  so  evi 
dent  that  most  people  did  not  see  their  beauty. 

His  nose  was  a  wonderful  nose ;  very  broad, 
and,  despite  a  tendency  to  be  plump,  very  flat;  it 
was  like  a  hyacinth  root  grown  between  a  couple 
of  bricks — bulbous  but  squashed.  His  mouth 
was  the  heart  of  a  ripe  watermelon,  only  the 
seeds  were  white.  It  went  straight  across  his 
face  for  a  great  many  inches  in  width,  and  was> 
when  closed,  so  very  wide  and  so  very  red,  that 
I  used  to  fancy  sometimes  that  he  had  been  made 
without  a  mouth,  but  that  somebody  had  cut  one 
on  his  countenance  with  a  scythe. 

His  wool  was  slightly  grizzled,  for  he  was 
some  sixty  years  old  when  I  first  knew  him,  and 
he  used  to  boast  that  he  was  "  de  fust  nigger 
ever  held  Missus  in  his  arms,"  "  Missus  "  being 
my  mother.  Add  to  this  a  figure  six  feet  two 
inches  in  height,  with  whip-cords  for  nerves,  and 


HOME    FRIENDS.  29 

!'.  *  • 

Bteel   bands  for  muscles,  animated  by  a  faithful 

devoted  heart,  a  azur  (Tor,  a  golden  heart,  as 
the  French  say,  and  you  have  an  idea  of  him  who 
called  himself  "  Mr.  Soc  Calvert." 

He  used  to  call  me  Massa  Pol,  and  indeed  the 
pronunciation  of  my  Christian  name  was  very  va 
ried.  My  dear  mother  said  "Paul,"  Flora  and 
my  cousins  "  Polly."  Martha  called  me  Mister 
Porl ;  Dr.  Eobertson  said  "  Pole  ye  ne'er-do- 
weel,"  and  Tbaddeus  Maloney  "  Powl  ye  divil." 

Only  one  more  friend  have  I  to  recall,  and  then 
the  chief  actors  on  the  stage  of  my  childhood  will 
all  have  been  named.  The  last  friend,  to  whom 
I  am  twice  indebted  for  my  life,  is  Hashby  my 
dog:  the  most  loving,  faithful,  brave  creature  in 
the  world.  ,  , 

I  remember  who  gave  him  to  me,  a  mere  puppy 
and  a  Newfoundland  puppy,  that  is  a  lump  of 
black  hair  without  any  particular  shape,  or  any 
distinct  qualities,  except  a  violent  tendency  to 
tumble  over,  to  tear  mufls,  hearth-rugs  and  mats 
to  pieces,  to  worry  fur  caps  and  young  kittens, 
to  take  his  most  intimate  acquaintances  for  entire 
strangers,  and  to  bark  at  them  witn  as.  much  fe 
rocity  as  though  his  life  depended  on  it.  « 

As  he  grew  older,  his  form  began  to  appear 


30  THE    BLOODSTONE. 

and  the  white  star  on  his  breast  grew  large.  Till 
this  time  he  had  been  "  Puppy,"  but  after  that  I 
teased  every  body  for  a  name.  Cesar,  Pompey, 
Neptune,  Giaour,  Corsair  were  all  proposed  and 
rejected.  Nelson  had  a  chance  of  carrying  the 
day,  but  Triton  drove  it  out  of  my  head.  At 
last  he  got  named  as  follows.  I  was  teasing  my 
good  old  tutor  for  a  befitting  title,  and  had  alrea 
dy  vetoed  six,  when  the  dog  bounded  between 
two  hounds  that  were  quarrelling  for  a  bone, 
made  a  snap  at  each  and  carried  off  the  prey. 

"  What  shall  I  call  him,  Doctor  ?" 

"  Whisht !  and  don't  bother  me  Pole,"  said  the 
old  man ;  "  ca'  him  Maher-shal-al-hash-baz,  for 
he  maketh  speed  to  divide  the  spoil.  See  Esaias 
aught  chapter  first  and  third  verses." 

So  Maher  shal-al-hash-baz  was  he  called — and 
that  significant  title  was  gradually  shortened  into 
Hashby,  a  name  borne  by  four  successive  genera 
tions  which  have  grown  up  under  my  fosterage. 
This  is  perhaps  a  good  deal  to  say  about  a  dog; 
but  just  think  of  the  thoroughness  of  a  dog's 
affection  !  How  he  gives  heart,  body  and  will 
up  to  the  master :  how,  oVave  and  defying  to 
others,  he  crawls  to  lick  your  feet  even  when  you 
have  treated  him  cruelly  :  how  he  pines  in  your 
sickness,  and  when  you  die,  thrills  the  souls  of 


«  •  *  *  " 

HOME    FRIENDS.  31 

the  watchers  by  his  long  moujnful  howls  beneath 
the  window  :  nay,  how  he  will  often  refuse  sus 
tenance,  and  go  and  stretch  himself  out  upon 
your  grave,  and  die  there  broken  hearted,  faith 
ful  unto  death  ! 

£ 


v;* 


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•-    i^l          iff       •'i^^^^' 

.  .^jjf  ;<      '     ••        -;     f 


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.  ,-        • 
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"A       . 


IV. 


WHEN  Life's  dreary  winter  months  begin  ; 
and  the  winds  grow  cold,  and  the  snows 
lie  heavily  ;  and  the  green  leaves  are  fallen  and 
the  boughs  are  bare ;  before  the  soul  draws  with 
in  itself  and  is  occupied  only  with  thoughts  of  the 
new  and  eternal  spring-time  which  shall  follow 
the  resurrection,  the  eye  is  turned  back  to  the 
pleasant  swards  and  green  dingles  and  murmur 
ing  brooks  of  childhood — to  the  shores  that  we 
have  left  behind ;  to  the  fairy  "  land  which  is  very 


CoRRUMBLING.  33 

far  off,'!  and  we  can  look  out  through  the  dimmed 
windows  of  age,  and  though  all  be  naked  and 
chill  around  us,  we  can  see,  far  away,  the  glow 
of  the  golden  sunshine  bright  upon  the  scenes  of 
our  youth.  Memory  of  the  Past,  Hope  of  the 
Future;  these  are  God's  comforters,  which  he 
giveth  to  our  declining  years. 

There  was,  beyond  our  orchard  and  at  the  foot 
of  the  long  lane,  a  huge,  yellow  frame  house, 
wherein  some  fifty  boys  were  lodged,  fed  and 
taught.  The  ancient  tawse  presided  in  that  es 
tablishment  wielded  by  a  strong  Scotch  arm : 
Latin  with  broad  pronunciation,  and  English  less 
carefully  instilled,  were  beaten  there  into  the 
youthful — MIND. 

flow  well  I  remember  the  vast  main-room  to 
which  one  ascended  by  a  staircase  on  the  outside 
of  the  house.  "What  a  motley  group  of  bright- 
eyed  American  boys,  fresh-faced  young  England- 
ers  always  inclined  to  plumpness  and  tight  trow 
sers ;  swarthy  young  Spaniards  from  Cuba  and 
Central  America ;  and  now  and  then  the  odd 
red-haired  face  of  a  canny  lowland  Scot ;  or  the 
rollicking  wide-mouthed  physiognomy  of  a  youth 
ful  Paddy.  Just  by  the  door  sate  three  hand 
some,  brown-eyed,  haughty  young  Highlanders 
from  the  Hebrides,  and  next  to  them  a  quaint 


34  THE    BLOODSTONE. 

prim  little  Quaker,  the  only  specimen  of  his  kind 
which  we  possessed. 

Perhaps  twenty  of  these  fellows'  were  day 
scholars, "  from  the  surrounding  country  seats. 
Of  such  were  my  cousins  and  I.  And  there  in 
black,  everlasting  knee-breeches,  square  coat  and 
big  buckled  shoes,  sat  old  Andrew  Smith,  the 
lord  of  all ;  or  there  paced  his  stalwart  son  Jim 
my,  swinging  the  tawse,  or,  on  great  occasions, 
the  half  of  a  waggon  truce. 

•I  can  recall  a  thousand  scenes  in  that  huge 
room,  and  about  that  school ;  but  I  wjll  not.  A 
school-boy's  life  is  ever  much  the  same.  Routine 
influences  his  studies,  rewards  and  floggings — his 
sports  are  all  traditional.  Base,  house-ball,  and 
-football ;  knuckle-all-over,  or  peg  in  tho  ring ; 
marble  shooting  in  the  big  ring,  the  little  ring  or 
the  hole ;  attack  and  defence  of  snow  forts,  swim 
ming  parties ;  boring  little  holes  in  the  desk  to 
be  tilled  with  slate-pencil  powder,  and  puffed  sud 
denly  into  an  unwary  eye :  the  crooked  pin 
placed  beneath  the  neighbor;  the  partnerships  in 
apples  and  taffy  ;  the  wrestlings,  boxing-matches 
and  foot-races ;  even  the  arena  feats  of  standing 
on  the  head,  or  walking  on  the  hands  with  heels 
in  the  air — behold,  were  not  all  these  things  done 
iu  the  times  of  old  ?  will  they  not  be  renewed 


CORRUMBLING.  35 

»*  • 

by  them  who  shall  come  after  us  ?  There  is  no 
thing  new  under  the  sun. 

Of  course,  we  day-scholars  were  privileged 
mortals.  When  three  o'clock  struck,  school-law 
ceased  to  huve  dominion  over  us,  and  we  were 
freemen  until  nine  the  next  morning.  Therefore 
were  we  held  in  great  estimation  by  the  board 
ers  who  coveted  invitations  for  Saturday  anv5 
Sunday  to'  our  comfortable  homes,  remission 
from  discipline  and  school  fare,  and,  the  bigger 
ones,  the  society  of  our  sisters  or  girl  cousins. 

Oh,  Green  hill!  the  frolics  that  your  green 
top  and  yellow  sandy  sides  have  witnessed. 
The  fierce  engagements  ;  the  extempore  pic  nics. 
Or  when  the  Angel  of  the  Snow  passed  above 
the  land,  and  shook  from  his  feathery  wings  the 
downy  multitudinous  flakes,  how  whizzed  the 
rapid  sled  down  the  long  descent,  shot  o'er  the 
brook,  and  sped  across  the  plain  till  it  brought 
up  at  Dr.  Graham's  garden  wall  ke  bunk  ! 

Then  skating  upon  Jenning's  pond  there — did 
not  Dick  Joel  break  through  in  the  middle,  and 
catch,  hand  over  hand,  at  the  crumbling  edge, 
which  broke  at  every  grasp  until  he  reached  the 
shore.  And  poor  Gonzales,  too,  fell  ip  at  the 
same  place,  and  was  drawn  under  the  ice,  and 
never  saw  his  warm  Cubao  6un,  nor  fragrant 


36  THE    BLOODSTONE. 

orange  groves,  nor  the  blue  sparkling  southern 
sea  again. 

I  wonder  that  I  am  living  now  to  recall  these 
things.  I  came  very  near  dying  about  this  pe 
riod  ;  and  my  recovery  had  so  singular  an  agen 
cy  that  I  will  even  set  the  story  down. 

It  was  during  the  reign  of  worthy  Dr.  Robert 
son,  who  was  retained  to  further  me  in  my  school 
acquirements,  nominally ;  but  really  in  benevo 
lence — for  the  odd,  learned  old  creature  was  one 
of  those  who  never  make  their  way  in  the  world, 
whether  by  accident  or  otherwise.  He  was  hot 
tempered,  but  physically  and  rheumatically  slow ; 
and  I,  lithe  and  quick  as  a  young  leopard,  would 
play  some  trick  on  him,  and  then  bound  through 
the  window  or  door,  and  lead  him  a  famous 
chase.  Sometimes  I  would  dodge  him  around 
the  pump ;  sometimes  climb  a  tree,  and  strad 
dling  some  huge  bough  tease  him  from  my  van 
tage  ground.  Once  I  remember  taking  refuge 
under  the  big.  porch,  where  he  poked  at  me  with 
a  long  stick  as  though  I  had  been  a  rat,  for  a 
quarter  of  an  hour.  On  such  occasions,  my  ap 
proving  audience  was  generally  old  Soc ;  who 
never  could  be  prevailed  upon  to  aid  the  doctor 
in  my  capture. 

One  tower  of  strength  I  possessed  unknown  to 


+*r     -%:          •   - 

'V 
r 

•* 
Co  R  RUMB  LTNG.  37 

any  body  but  myself.  A  favorite  place  of  refuge 
from  the  angry  tutor  was  the  roof  of  the  stable, 
where  I  would  sit  astride  and  mock  at  him. 
Then  the  doctor  would  laboriously  bring  a  lad 
der,  mount  to  the  eaves,  and  dislodge  me  with  a 
fishing-pole,  whereupon  I  would  roll  off  on  the 
other  side  and  mysteriously  disappear.  Then  the 
doctor  would  descend  and  go  about  the  stable 
looking  for  me  in  vain.  Even  when  there  was 
fresh  snow  upon  the  ground,  not  a  footstep  or 
trace  of  me  was  visible.  The  roof  was  sound — 
there  was  no  scuttle,  nor  was  it  approachable 
from  any  other  side  than  the  one  guarded  by  the 
doctor — so  that  where  I  went  to  was  mysterious 
beyond  human  endurance. 

The  secret  was  this.  On  the  side  of  the  stable 
at  which  I  would  disappear  stood  a  large  hay 
stack  about  six  feet  lower  than  the  eaves.  In  the 
very  centre  of  this  I  had  bored  a  hole  down  to 
the  very  bottom,  and  into  this  I  used  to  drop 
after  rolling  off  the  roof  upon  the  hay.  Many  a 
time  has  the  doctor  from  below  thrashed  the  top 
of  the  stack  with  the  lithe  pole  ;  many  a  time  has 
he  looked  from  the  stable  windows  on  a  level 
with  the  stack  to  see  if  I  were  on  the  top  of  it — 
but  in  vain ;  I  was  invisible. 

One  warm  day  towards  the  close  of  summer,  I 


38  THE    BLOODSTONE. 

had  performed  some  trick,  made  my  escape,  and 
taken  refuge  in  my  tower.  I  had  enjoyed  the 
doctor's  futile  endeavors  to  discover  ray  where 
abouts  and  his  subsequent  retreat;  and  I  was 
moving  about,  when  I  felt  something  yielding  be 
neath  my  feet.  I  shuddered,  -and  sprang  at  the 
cross  stick  above  me,  and  caught  it — but  it  broke 
with  my  weight ;  and  then  I  heard  a  .horrid  hiss 
ing,  and  a  vile  black  snake  some  four  feet  long 
twined  up  my  legs  and  round  my  body,  and  held 
his  flat  head  back,,  looking  at  rae^  with  his  cold 
diamond  eyes,  and  his  forked  tongue  quivering 
between  the  scaly  lips:' 

Oh  God  !  what  cold  horror  seized  on  me  !  I 
strove  to  climb  the  sides,  but  the  dry  hay  slipped 
beneath  my  tread,  the  sharp  ends  cut  my  face 
and  hands,  and  the  folds  of  the  malicious  and 
chill  serpent  tightened  about  me.  Then  it  glided 
to  my  left  arm,  and  1  could  use  it  no  longer,  lest 
I  should  bring  the  reptile  nearer  to  my  face.  But 
I  held  it  out  straight  before  me.  uttered  a  few 
screams  of  horror,  and  stood  there  icy  and  stiff. 

Old  Soc  had  heard  my  screams,  and  whether 
he  knew  of  my  hiding  place  or  not,  discovered 
me  and  drew  rne  out.  He  led  me  in  pale,  silent, 
and  with  dilated  eyes  and  whi^e  parted  lips  to  my 
mother ;  but  my  senses  were  gone.  I  felt  no* 


CORRUMBLING.  39 

her  warm  embraces :  the  gentle  bosom-  that  pil 
lowed  my  face  only  frightened  me  ;  in  the  clasp 
of  those  loving  arms,  I  felt  again  the  folds  of  the 
snake — I  was  paralyzed. 

For  weeks  I  lay  thus:  dreaming  and  starting 
horrifieel  from  my  dreams :  cold  and  shivering 
evermore;  nothing  could  warm  me,  nothing  could 
bring  a  drop  of  relieving  perspiration  through 
the  frozen  pores.  Now  and  then  I  would  have 
an  hour  or  two  of  relief,  and  of  sense  when  I 
knew  every  body,  and  could  talk  or  read  a  little. 
But  the  least  thing  in  the  world  brought  back 
the  horror.  The  sight  of  a  crooked  tree-bough 
through  the  window  ;  the  cord  of  the  curtains  ; 
the  waving  of  a  ribbon ;  the  long,  brown  curl 
falling  on  Florry's  sweet  face — any  thing  almost 
brought  back  the  dreadful  reptile.  5  ,• 

At  last  Mrs.  Baker  saved  me.  Mrs.  Baker 
was  an  old,  sick  nurse,  who  had  been  brought 
from  I  don't  know  where,  to  watch  me.  She 
was  an  odd  old  thing,  smelling  very  strongly  of 
alcohol,  and  always  called  me  "  lamb." 

One  day  when  my  mother  was  absent,  I  awoke 
calmly  and  looked  about  me.  On  a  little  stand 
at  the  foot  of  my  bed  stood  a  pint  bottle  empty, 
a  cup  and  spoon,  and  some  vials.  A  prodigious 
smell  of  brandy  pervaded  the  room,  and  when  I 


40  THE    BLOODSTONE. 

stirred,  a  wrinkled  old  face,  framed  in  a  heavy 
nightcap,  stooped  over  me  and  said, 

"  Well,  Lamb." 

«  Where's  Mama  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Gone  away,  down  town,  lamb — but  she'U  be 
back  directly.  Take  a  little  drink,  lamb,  and 
then,  lamb,  I'll  apply  the  fricture." 

"  The  what,  nurse  ?" 

"  The  fricture,  my  lamb.  The  doctor  orders 
repose  and  frictures — and  the  frictures  is  best." 

"  Has  it  got  a  bad  taste,  nurse  ?" 

"  Lord  love  you,"  said  Mrs.  Baker,  "  frictures 
aint  nothin'  to  swaller — they're  rubbin',  rubbin' 
with  flannel  and  sich.  I  uses  frictures  myself,  for 
I'm  likeways  subjek  to  chills  and  a  dreadful  co- 
rumbling  in  my  innards." 

This  expression  struck  me  as  very  odd,  and  I 
began  to  laugh,  and  was  still  merry  when  my 
mother  came  in. 

"  Why  Paul,"  she  said,  kissing  me — "  laugh 
ing  !  I  am  glad  to  see  that  once  more.  Has  he 
slept  well,  Mrs.  Baker  ?  have  you  given  him  his 
medicine  ?"  .  Then  she  glanced  towards  the  stand 
and  added,  "  But  where  is  all  the  brandy  ?" 

It  was  all  used  up,  Mrs.  Baker  said,  in  the 
frictures  for  the  lamb. 

My  mother  looked  any  thing  but  credulous, 


V 

CDRRUMBLING.  41 

but  Mrs.  Baker  stuck  to  it — and  as  she  gave  my 
mother  her  place  beside  the  -bed,  and  retired  to 
wards  the  fireplace,  she  muttered  to  herself, 

"  It's  the  friclures,  ma'am,  as  took  it  all.  As 
for  drinkin'  it,  no  !  I  can't  nor  never  could  abear 
the  taste  of  liquor,  unless  it  was  jest  four  drops 
of  wintergreen  for  the  co-rumbling." 

As  I  heard  the  word  again,  I  burst  out  afresh ; 
until  they  thought  I  was  delirious — and  my  mo 
ther  bent  over  me  anxiously, 

"  Why,  Paul,  darling,  what  is  the  matter  ?" 

"  Oh  mama,"  I  choked  out,  "  I've  got  such  a 
co-rumbling !" 

Then  my  mother  began  to  laugh  till  the  tears 
rolled  down  her  cheeks,  and  Flory  came  in  and 
tried  to  get  an  explanation ;  but  the  stuttering 
and  interrupted  attempts  to  answer  set  her  off — 
and  we  three  shook  with  fun  ;  and  a  low  cracked 
chuckle  chimed  in  occasionally  from  the  fireplace^ 

I  laughed  until  I  was  both  thirsty  and  sleepy ; 
and  then  swallowed  a  warm  drink,  and  Mrs.  Ba 
ker  "  frictured"  me  into  a  deep  sleep.  A  violent 
perspiration  broke  out;  my  disease  was  conquer 
ed  ;  and  I  woke  refreshed  and  renewed.  A  short 
period  of  convalescence  was  pleasantly  passed  ; 
and  though  for  years  afterward  I  could  not  see 
even  an  earth-worm  or  a  caterpillar  without  a 


42  THE    BLOODSTONE. 

shudder,  yet  eventually  I  conquered  the  whole 
nervous  irritability  which  had  so  nearly  been  the 
death  of  me. 

As  for  Mrs.  Baker,  I  never  saw  her  again ;  she 
disappeared  the  next  day,  and  I  suppose  that 
long  before  this,  she  and  her  co-rumbling  have 
passed  to  another  world. 


•  •>•• 

Y. 

*•' 

. 

_•  / 

ff\XWYWtibYG 

v^gaTft-lltis* 

'  *•*:•  "*-. 


rriHAT  period  of  convalescence  had,  I  suspect 
JL  a  very  great  influence  on  my  after  life.  There 
are  two  sorts  of  education;  that  which  a  man 
gets  from  others,  and  that  which  he  gives  to  him 
self.  It  is  not  true  that  so-called  self-educated 
men,  form  a  class  apart.  Every  man,  college-bred 
or  otherwise,  who  attains  distinction,  is  self-edu 
cated.  In  schools  and  universities  there  are  out 
ward  incidents  attached  to  each  step  in  inward 
culture  ;  and  these  incidents  fix  the  recollection  of 
that  learning  in  the  mind.  But  there  are  millions 
of  hours,  forgotten  when  we  look  back  to  our 


44  THE    BLOODSTONE. 

youth,  which  were  devoted  Jx)  as  deep  and  earn 
est  a  study  as  Rector  or  Professor  ever  required 
or  obtained.  These  occur  during  our  confine 
ment  to  the  house ;  during  our  ramble  in  the  for 
est,  our  loiterings  by  the  brook  side;  our  moments, 
which  when,  reviewed  through  the  distant  and 
darkened  glass  of  old  age,  seem  to  have  been 
wasted  moments. 

No  one  is  too  young  to  reflect.  The  busy  and 
occupied  youth  lacks  time,  not  capacity  for  med 
itation.  Age  is  often  wrong  when  it  says  to  youth 
'  When  thou  hast  seen  my  years,  thou  wilt  be 
wise.'  A  boy  of  seventeen,  retiring  in  his  habits 
or  shunned  by  his  mates,  an  isolated  boy,  is  fifty 
times  wiser,  than  the  man  of  eighty,  who  has 
never  had  time  to  think.  If  rolling  years  have 
indented  certain  rude  facts  into  the  soul  of  the 
old  man;  it  will  not  equal  the  results  of  the  quick 
observation  of  fiery  eyed  youth. 

Hours,  stolen  from  study,  for  the  perusal  of 
Robison  Crusoe,  in  a  quiet  nook,  have  made  men 
confirmed  wanderers  on  the  earth.  I  have  known 
old  men,  who  would  defend  and  act  up  to  a  cer 
tain  principle,  yet  deny  its  application  to  one  par 
ticular  case,'  which  has  occured  in  some  story  or 
circumstance  of  their  boyhood. 

School  and  college  studies  advance  by  routine, 


-••       ~  ~         » 

-_  V» 

CHARACTERS.  45 

and  generally  make  as  little  impression  as  the 
daily  and  regular  dinner.  They  nourish,  it  is  true, 
but  they  leave  no  memory  ;  create  no  character 
istic.  It  is  the  pic-nic,  the  meal  in  the  sail-boat, 
the  feast  upon  stolen  fruit  which  leave  traces : 
what  is  done  out  of  order,  out  of  established 
abitude. 

I  am  convinced  that  many  salient  points  of  my 
character,  which  I  have  fancied  innate,  are  results 
of  my  reading  when  alone ;  on  the  housetop,  in 
the  extemporized  cabin  ;  in  the  bosky  glen  ;  in  the 
sweet  scented  hay-loft ;  in  the  wood  ;  in  the  still 
chamber  of  illness  or  convalescence. 

I  had  long  been  initiated  into  the  mysteries  of 
Don  Quixotte,  Gil  Bias,  le  Diable  Boiteux  and 
Gulliver's  travels ;  but  the  corruption  attendant 
upon  all  ancient  and  high  civilization  depicted  in 
these  works,  had  no  effect  upon  me,  I  did  not 
comprehend  it ;  nor  had  Swift's  fierce  sarcasm 
nor  the  irony  of  Cervantes  any  influence,  I  did  not 
know  of  its  existence.  Gulliver  interested  me  be 
cause  of  his  adventures,  and  I  loved  the  old  Don 
with  my  whole  heart. 

While  still  confined  to  my  room,  I  made  my 
earliest  acquaintance  with  the  Waverley  Novels  : 
first  with  the  Talisman,  and  then  with  Ivanhoe. 
Those  two  works  gave  me  a  love  for  chivalry  and 

*» 


46  THE    BLOODSTONE. 

its  age  which  I  never  have  been  able  to  overcome; 
and  when  to  these  were  added  the  weird  novels 
of  de  la  Motte  Fonque,  "Aslauga's  Knight," 
"  Wild  Love,"  and  "  The  Magic  King,"  which 
supplied  to  the  Knight,  what  Scott  had  not  given 
to  him,  the  Christian  element,  the  element  of  deep 
devotion,  then  the  love  grew  deeper  and  was 
ed  into  a  kind  of  principle,  useful  to^me  in  later  life 
Now  too,  I  read  my  first  history,  except  of 
coiirse  the  dry  school  histories,  learned  and  for 
gotten  piece  meal  and  by  rote.  It  was  Hume's 
narrative  of  the  last  attempt  to  restore  the  Stew 
arts  to  the  throne  of  Great  Britain.  Every  boy 
in  the  world,  I  suppose,  is.  a  zealous  Jacobite  as  far 
as  Prince  Charley  is  concerned.  I  was  such  not 
only  because  of  his  romantic  history,  but  heredi 
tarily  ;  some  of  our  own  British  kindred  had  fal 
len  for  him  on  the  field  and  one  on  the  scaffold. 
But  what  particularly  interested  me  was  the  nar 
rative  of  his  escape  and  wanderings  through  the 
Highlands.  The  devoted  loyalty  ;  the  resolute 
resistance  of  temptation  displayed  by  his  guides, 
often  poor  peasants,  the  horror  with  which  the 
character  of  an  informer  was  viewed  :  the  fierce 
hatred  of  betrayal  which  was  exhibited  —  all  these 
made  a  profound  and  enduring  impression  upon 
me.  It  increased  my  schoolboy  contempt  foi 


^ 

.  • 


CHARACTERS. 

f        •' 

tell-tales ;  it  grew  with  my  growth ;  it  entered 
into  my  life  ;  it  caused  the  bitterest  sorrow  that 
I  have  ever  known  :  it  made  me  what  I  "am  now  ; 
an«t  what  you  will  all  know  me,  if  you  follow 
these  confessions  to  tho  end. 

I  believe  that  I  can  trace  to  "  Sintram  and  his 
Companions, "  and  especially  to  that  most  exquisite 
t>f  creations  "Undine,"  a  disposition  to  dreaminess 
and-reverie,  an  excitability  of  imagination,  and  a 
certain  degree  of  superstition,  so-catted,  which- 
are  components  of  my  character. 

There  was,  I  have  already  said,  a  pleasant 
brook,  which  ran  through  our  place  and  emptied 
into  the  Hudson.  It  passed  through  the  remnant 
of  the  forest,  of  which  I  have  spoken,  and  formed 
a  wild  and  beautiful  glen  there.  Just  as  it 
entered  the  wood,  it  was  stopped  by  a  natural 
dam,  and  broadened  out  into  quite  a  large  sheet 
of  water,  a  couple  of  hundred  feet  wide  perhaps. 
Then  over  broken  rocks,  through  a  narrow  pas 
sage,  it  rushed  white  foaming,  down  a  descent  of 
fifteen  or  twenty  feet,  too  perpendicular  to  be 
called  a  rapid,  not  enough  so  to  be  named  a  fall. 
And  so  over  a  rough  bed  it  sparkled  on  for  fifty 
yards  or  so  when  it  made  another  pond,  and  then 
once  more  narrrowing,  flowed  peacefully  along, 
"  singing  its  song  to  the  quiet  woods,"  and  pouring 


48  THE    BLOODSTONE. 

its  little  tribute  into  the  broad  and  beautiful  river. 
The  full  was  overshadowed  by  oaks  and  ma 
ples,  under  which  grew  thickly  wild  roses,  dog 
wood,  sweet  brier,  and  a  host  of  wood  flowers. 
The  steep  sides  of  the  glen  were  covered  with 
the  same  growth,  with  an  occasional  hickory  tree. 
In  the  marshy  spots  grew  the  purple  fleur-de-lis  4 
and  ivy,  pine-fringes,  and  wild  grapes,  festooned 
the  trunks  and  bougtis  of  the  stately  trees. 

It  was  to  my  mood  always  most  beautiful  in 
Autumn,  where  thS  dying  foliage  put  on  its  hues 
of  glory,  and  amid  the  pomp  of  crimson  and  gold, 
shone  the  rare  green  of  the  cedar  and  hemlock, 
or  hung  the  dark  juicy  clusters  of  the  round  fox- 
grape.  Or  in  the  sweet  Indian  summer.,  that  smile 
which  breaking  from  the  rude  heart  of  winter, 
maketh  his  rough  face  lovelier  than  the  Spring's 
—  that  glen  was  fairer  to  me  than  ever  in  the 
many  colored  autumn.  The"  heavy  air  was  warm 
and  fragrant;  the  trees  appeared  likely  to  bud 
anew  :  the  sparse  flowers  raised  their  pale  heads 
and  drank  in  the  balm  of  the  atmosphere;  the  un 
chained  brook  ran  merrily  on  its  way  ;  the  insect 
awoke  from  sleep  and  flitted  dreamily  through 
the  diaphanous  air  ; 

"  Merry  on  balancing  branches, 

Birds  were  singing  their  carrol  a  jubuant  hymn  to  the 
Highest.  ' 


a*- 


CHARACTERS.  49 

and  the  water  fell  from  the  mossy  rocks,  and 
took  weird  shapes  viewed  through  the  warm  mist 
of  the  slumberous  season. 

Here  I  used  to  sit  till  twilight  fell,  and  the  bro 
ken  moonbeams  would  play  strangely  upon  the 
gauze  veiled  fall ;  here  I  would  sit  and  fancy  a 
fair  Undine  in  the  wavering  fall  and  the  white 
foam :  and  would  try  to  make  verses ;  and  would 
people  the  wood  with  half  seen  forms :  till  the  bat 
began  to  flutter  through  the  haze  and  the  hoot 
of  the  owl  trembled  in  the  distance  ;  and  the  cold 
night  came  on  to  drive  th'e  sap  of  the  sugar  maple 
up  from  the  roots,  and  to  send  me  home  unwil 
lingly  to  study  or  to  sleep. 

Was  this  my  education  ?  Or  am  I  what  T  am 
because  of  my  Heeren's  History,  my  Homer  and 
my  Horace?  What  have  I  learned  from  those 
long  lists  of  rivers,  and  strings  of  capital  towns, 
and  boundings  on  the  North  by  this  and  on  the 
South  by  that!  What  weight  in  my  existence 
hath  Hector  with  his  curiously  wrought  helmet, 
or  Telamonian  Ajax  had !  What  principle  did 
pious  ^Eneas  plant  in  me  !  Doubtless  they  all 
did  something  for  me,  but  what  they  did  is  indis 
tinguishable  now. 

But  that  deep  love  for  the  Past :  that  admira 
tion  for  chivalric  sense  of  honor,  high  courage  and 


50  THE    BLOODSTONE. 

devotion  :  that  dreaminess  and  love  for  the  super 
natural  :  that  principle  of  loyalty  and  hate  of  in 
formers  and  spies  :  that  desire  for  the  mysterious 
which  IJearned  of  my  own  accord,  inleisure  hours 
from  books  which  no  one  gave  me  for  my  study. 
these  are  what  have  moulded  me  ;  these  created 
my  characteristics  ;  these  wrought  the  web  and 
woof  of  my  life  ;  gave  birth  to,  heightened  and  al 
leviated  my  enjoyments  and  my  sorrows. 

As  I  draw  towards  the  end  of  these  reminis 
cences,  I  grow  sad.  Fain  would  T  linger  in  this 
Holy  Land  of  youth  :  fain  be  fanned  by  itn 
breezes  ;  warmed  by  its  sunshine,  breathe  its  sweet 
atmosphere  forever.  But  the  story  of  my  life  is 
before  me  and  I  must  hasten  on  to  tell  it. 

I  have  said  that  Hushby  twice  saved  my  life. 
The  first  time  I  w^is  in  a  skiff  on  the  Hudson, 
which  we  upset  in  frolicking.  I  was  the  only  one 
who  had  not  yet  learned  to  swim  ;  and  I  would 
inevitably  have  been  drowned,  had  my  dog  not 
seized  my  collar  in  his  strong  teeth  and  borne 
me  to  the  shore.  The  other  escape  was  from  a 
rabid  dog.  I  had  heard  of  him  at  school  and  in 
turning  into  our  long  lane  met  hi'.n  suddenly. 
As  he  came  at  me,  his  chest  flecked  with  the 
foam  that  mantled  on  his  lips  and  his  red  eyes 
glowing  with  their  fierce  fever,  I  fled  up  the  lane. 

V 


•"  I  _ 

...  I, 

• 

_. 
CHARACTERS.  51 

Twice  in  my  haste  I  fell ;  but  sprang  up  again 
and  renewed  my  race  for  life.  But  my  speed 
soon  slackened  and  I  knew  that  the  brute  was 
gaining  on  rne.  A  few  bounds  more  and  I  felt 
that  my  strength  was  gone :  I  could  hear  his  hot 
pantings  ;  I  fancied  I  could  feel  his  burning  breath. 
Again  I  stumbled  and  before  I  could  rise  my 
own  brave  Hashby  had  sprung  over  me  and  had 
seized  the  pursuer  by  the  throat.  Long  and 
fiercely  they  fought,  but  at  length  the  white 
tusks  of  my  noble  dog  tore  open  the  throat  of 
his  enemy  and  he  rolled  over  and  died. 

But  Hashby  had  received  four  or  five  severe 
bites  and  was  condemned  to  be  shut  up  in  an  out 
house.  Oh  how  often  have  I  heard  his  melan 
choly  howl  in  the  stillness  of  the  night ;  how  often 
have  I  seen  his  sad  reproachful  eye  looking  at 
me,  as  I  watched  him  through  a  grated  window 
and  dared  not  even  offer  him  a  caress.  At  last, 
the  disease  declared  itself  and  the  poor  fellow 
was  ordered  to  be  shot. 

JWR*.       i,-.  . 

When  the  hour  of  execution  arrived,  I  shut 
myself  up  in  my  room  and  held  my  fingers  over 
my  ears  lest  I  should  hear  the  fatal  shot.  When 
I  thought  all  was  over,  I  went  down  stairs,  and 
met  Florry  all  in  tears  :  I  did  not  speak  to  her 
but  went  out  on  the  porch  and  looked  towards 

' 


. 

52  THE    BLOODSTONE. 

the  outhouse.  There  stood  old  Soc  with  his  gun 
looking  in  at  the  dog.  In  a  moment  he  came 
towards  me,  wiping  his  eyes  with  hie  hard  black 
hand. 

"  Can't  sboot  dat  dog  :  dat  is  a  fac,"  I  heard 
him  say.  But  when  he  saw  me,  he  seemed  to 
gather  new  resolution,  and  returning  he  hesitated 
for  a  while,  raising  and  putting  down  his  gun 
irresolutely  until  at  last  I  heard  him  say,  "  You 
got  to  shoot,  ole  Soc,  you  got  to  shoot,"  and  the 
next  minute  I  heard  a  report.  Then  I  too  ran 
to  the  place  and  looked  in  through  the  bars.  The 
coming  of  Death  saemed  to  have  conquered  the 
madness;  and  Hashby  saw  me.  His  shoulders 
were  both  shattered  and  his  breast  pierced  by 
the  slugs,  one  of  which  had  torn  open  his  noble 
head  also.  But  he  fixed  his  fond  eyes  on  mine, 
and  whined  lowly  and  feebly  wagged  his  tail. 

"  Oh,  Soc,"  I  cried,  bursting  into  tears,  "  he  is 
not  dead  1" 

Then  the  old  fellow  loaded  onc-j  more,  and  put 
his  gun  through  the  bars  to  my  brave  dog's  head 
and  fired :  and  so  he  died,  for  his  love  and  fidel 
ity  to  me. 

We  buried  him  down  by  the  side  of  the  creek ; 
and  I  have  seldom  seen  Mama  or  Florry  look 


CHARACTERS.  53 

more  sad,  than  when  the  gardener  smoothed 
down  the  sod"  over  the  grave,  and  we  turned 
away  towards  the  house. 

And  so  the  years  passed  on.  I  in  my  turn  be 
came  a  big  boy  and  learned  to  patronize  the  little 
fellows  ;  and  to  get  a  good  deal  of  service  out  of 
them  in  return  for  a  very  little  protection.  My 
verses  began  to  assume  a  more  regular  form  ;  a 
little  heart  broken  withal  as  verses  should  be 
when  one  has  a  secret  tenderness.  I  had  one 
which  passed  among  mortals  by  the  name  of 
Lizzy  Swan. 

Lizzy  was  never  unkind  to  me  in  the  world ; 
and  certainly  returned  my  affection  with  fairness, 
if  not  with  usury;  yet  I,  as  a  poet,  wrote  the 
most  mournful  trash,  abusing  my  Destiny  in  out 
rageous  language,  and  trying  to  persuade  myself 
that  my  life  was  already  withered.  And  now 
Lizzy  Swan  has  grown  up  daughters  and  is  fat. 
She  married  a  schoolmate  of  mine,  who  used  to 
wear  the  tightest  trousers,  and  had  a  round 
blonde  face,  and  always  looked  as  if  about  to 
ooze  out  of  his  jacket.  1  can  remember  his  imbe 
cile  grin  struggling  with  his  desire  to  cry,  and 
his  moist  eyes,  when  old  Smith  would  apply  a 
stinging  cut  just  where  his  body  was  fattest  and 


f. 

54  THE    BLOODSTONE. 

his  trousers  most  tight.     He  was  a  great  booby  ; 
and  now  lives  in  a  palace,  is  Assistant  Alderman 
and  the  spouse  of  my  secret  tenderness. 
Oh,  Lizzy  Swan ! 

*,'o.'\'-»^'        '       •• 

•      .  •  '  V ' 


if 

<>•'<* 
••,*.    '  *  : »  • 


#  f*i  '••-' 

*  •  „» 


£>,-  ..  ^.-^ 
* ' 


'A 


v   ' 


rpHE  pleasure  that  I  derived  from  de  la  Motte 
JL  Fouque,  induced  me  to  search  for  what 
ever  translations  from  the  German  I  could  find. 
These  were  not  numerous,  but  they  were  suffi- , 
ciently  so,  to  produce  a  powerful  effect  upon  me. 
I  read  the  Phantasus  of  Ludvvig  Tieck,  a  volume 
of  Rhenish  legends  ;  bits  from  Jean  Paul  Richter : 
some  of  the  sweet  ballads  of  Uhland,  and  finally 
a  translation  of  Wilhelm  Meister,  which  I  read 
and  reread  but  could  not  understand  :  which  per 
haps  was  one  cause  for  my  admiration  of  it. 
Perhaps  also,  it  is  much  more  common  now, 


56  THE"  BLOODSTONE. 

than  in  my  day,  to  admire  certain  incomprehensi 
ble  German  authors  ;  and  X  have  often  thought 
that  their  chief  charm  lay  in  their  incomprehensi 
bility.  When  the  famous  Dr.  Parr  left  his  little 
country  parish,  he  was  succeeded  by  a  less  learn 
ed,  but  devoted  and  excellent  minister.  A  visitor 
in  the  neighborhood,  questioned  a  shock-headed 
clod-pole,  as  to  the  merits  of  the  new  parson. 

"  Oh,"  quoth  Giles,  "  he  be  nowt  loike  Doctor 
Parr." 

"  But  is  he  not  a  very  good  preacher  ?" 

"Au  aye,  beloike  he  be  a  goodish  preacher, 
but  no  Latiner,  measter,  no  Latiner." 

Oh,  ye  German  philosophers,  ye  too  have 
countless  shock-headed  clodpoles  among  your 
readers,  who  love  you  only  because  th^y  cannot 
understand  you  ;  and  who  prefer  your'  misty  ap 
pearances  to  God's  vtruth,  w,hen  writt'en  by  one 
who  is  no  Latiner. 

But  to  return  to  myself.  My  favorite  reading 
produced  in  me,  a  wish  which  soon  grew  into  a 
yearning  to  visit  Germany,  and  to  enter  a  Ger 
man  University.  I  began  to  write  metaphysical 
poems  ;  songs  in  "  wine  "  and  "  Rhine  ;  whereof 
every  other  verse  had  the  word  "  weird  "  in  it  : 
the  adjectives  were,  "  solemn,"  "  mysterious,  " 
"  wild,"  etc.  and  upon  the  whole,  the  creations 


LEAVING    HOME.  57 

were  as  germanic  as  most  other  such  things  writ 
ten  by  young  Americans. 

Then  I  talked  in  extraordinary  language,  made 
up  of  compound  adjectives  and  unusual  nouns. 
I  spoke  of  "  inception  of  ideas,"  of  the  "  eternal 
I,"  of  the  "  solemnity  of  man,"  and  I  told  Florry 
that  what  we  knew  of  the  human  soul,  was  that 
it  was  individual  and  mythical,  which  was  the  to 
tality  of  its  possible  comprehensibility.  And  Florry 
would  open  her  large  brown  eyes  and  stare  at 
me  in  reverent,  but  ignorant  admiration  ;  but  my 
mother  would  fix  her  quiet  look  on  mine,  with  a 
quizzical  smile  upon  her  lips,  until  I  would  get  red, 
and  an  irrepressible  grin  would  break  out  from  me, 
half-indignant,  and  half-sheepish — I  never  could 
humbug  her  with  my  philosophy. 

She  was  a  remarkable  musician,  and  especially 
loved  the  German  music,  Mendelsohn,  Weber, 
Beethoven,  but  above  all,  the  master  of  Masters 
Mozart.  I  inherited  from  her,  the  acutest  sensi 
bility  to  music  ;  I  have  never  known  any  body  so 
instantly,  and  so  powerfully  affected  by  sounds. 
The  swell  of  the  military  trumpet,  the  deep,  har 
monious  rolling  of  the  religious  organ,  the  sing 
ing  of  a  plaintive  melody,  like  the  last  Rose  of 
Summer,  or  the  chiming  of  holy  bells  could 
change  my  mood  at  will.  Favorites  of  mine,  now 


58  THE   BLOODSTONE. 

strummed  on  every  piano,  were  the  waltzes  of 
Desire  and  of  Sorrow,  von  Weber's  last  waltz, 
bits  from  Mozart's  requiem,  and  these  being  Ger 
man,  only  served  to  increase  my  desire  to  visit 
that  harmonious  land. 

At  last,  I  could  no  longer  restrain  my 
yearnings,  and  I  teased  my  mother  until  I  at 
last  wrung  from  her  a  reluctant  consent. — 
Then  it  was  decided.  As  soon  as  I  had  accom 
plished  my  junior  year  in  old  Columbia,  which 
would  be  just  after  my  nineteenth  birth  day,  I 
was  to  leave  home.  One  thing,  however,  all  my 
entreaties  failed  to  accomplish ;  I  wanted  to  go 
to  G-ottengen  or  Heidelberg,  but, my  mother  was 
immovable  in  this.  If  go  I  must,  it  should  be 
to  Bonn ;  the  other  two  establishments  were  filled 
with  skeptical  Professors,  mysticism  was  the  fash 
ionable  form  of  belief  or  unbelief,  and  she  knew 
too  well  its  effect  upon  the  young  and  half  edu 
cated.  So  I  was  obliged  to  acquiesce,  and  the 
shores  of  old  Father  Rhine  were  to  be  blest  by 
my  presence. 

I  had  some  sort  of  far  off  kinsman  who  dwelt 
in  summer  near  Andernach ;  he  had  married  one 
of  our  English  cousin^,  and  to  him  I  v?as  to  be 
especially  recommended.  Letters  for  Bonn  were 
easily  procurable,  and  an  introduction  or  two  in 


I.  K  A  V  1  N  G     H  O  M  E.  59 

Berlin  and  Cologne.  To  crown  all,  old  Soc  was 
to  go  with  us,  if  he  could  be  brought  to  give  his 
consent,  but  he  liad  shown  so  violent  a  disappro 
bation  of  my  departure,  that  it  was  feared  that 
his  society,  however  desirable,  would  be  unattain 
able. 

At  the  proper  time' however,  he  wis  ordered 
before  the  council  of  three  which  sat-i  in  the  draw 
ing  room,  and  when  he  had  made  his  bow  was 
thus  addressed: '  .J 

"  You  know  Soc,  that  Paul  is  going  away  next 
week." 

"  Yes,  I  know,  but  I  would'nt  let  him  ef  I  was 
Missus.  What  good  Massa  Pol  git  by  goin 
dar  ?  Why  cant  um  stay  home  wid  his  mudder 
and  his  lilly  sister  and  old  Soc  ?" 
jfc  "  It  is  too  late  to  argue"  that  topic  now,  Soc,  for 
his  passage  is  taken.  But  he  wants  you  to  go 
with  him " 

"  Go  wid  um  !  Go  way  from  you  Missus,  and 
nobody  to  take  care  of  you  and  Miss  Florry  ? — 
Why  !"  turning  indignantly  towards  me,  "  Why 
Massa  Pol,  what  a  onreasonable  boy  you  is  !" 

"  Well  but  Soc,"  I  said,  "  will  you  let  me  go 
off  among  strangers  all  alone  in  this  way  ?" 

"  Taint  no  use  talkin'  Massa  Pol ;  ole  Soc,  he 


§  *  •; 


60  THE    BLOODSTONE. 

gittin  too  ole  to  travel.  Can't  leave  Missis,  -ole 
Soc  can't." 

"  But  Soc,"  said  my  mother,  "  we  will .  have 
friends  here  all  about  us,  and  we  will  be  at  home 
in  our  own  comfortable  house.  Here,  where 
everybody  knows,  and  respects  us.  But  Paul 
will  be  surrounded  by  strangers,  and  if  you  refuse 
to  go,  will  not  have  one  single  friend  to  talk  to 
of  his  home," 

"  What  Missus,  you  want  to  send  ole  Soc 
away  ?"  said- the  poor  fellow  mournfully. 

'•  No,  my  friend,  not  unless  you  wish  to  go. 
But  I  thought  you  loved  Paul  well  enough  not 
to  part  with  him  so  easy. " 

The  tears  gathered  in  the  old  fellow's  eyes  as 
he  said,  "I  do  love  little  Massa  Pol ;  ole  Soc  cut 
his  hand  off  for  Massa  Pol,  but  he  love  Missus 
too.  Nebber  mind.  I  go." 

"  That's  a  good  fellow,"  said  I. 

"  Then  it  is  settled  Soc,  is  it  ?  you  will  go," 

asked  mama. 

'••-»*     ..-.-"  •'•        $**• '  '*"•  • 

"  Yes  Missus,  I  go." 

"  Then,"  said  Florry  mischievously,  "there  will 
be  nobody  left  to  take"  care  of  mB." 

Soc  turned  his  soft  eyes  on  her,  and  his  heavy 
lips  began  to  tremble,  and  his  cheek  to  twitch 
as  he  raised  his  hard  black  hand  to  his  eyea 


LEAVING     HOME.  61 

Then  Florry  sprang  up  and  took  his  hand  and 
said, 

"  No,  never  mind,  Soc,  I  will  have  mama, 
but  poor  Polly  will  have  nobody  but  you.  You 
shall  go  with  him,  and  take  care  of  him  and 
bring  him  safe  back  to  us." 

And  there  the  faithful  old  man  stood  for  a  mo 
ment,  patting  my  sister's  little  white  hand  in  his 
great  dusky  paws,  and  then  hurried  out  of  the 
room,  sobbing. 

So  then  the  four  or  five  days  passed  on,  and 
the  eve  of  my  departure  came.  Now,  as  I  sit 
here  writing,  my  memory  goes  back,  "over  all 
those  thousands  of  miles,  over  the  European  pop 
ulous  cities,  over  that  wide  and  indomitable 
main,  where  the  white  sails  glance  rarely,  to  the 
pleasant  drawing  room  in  that  dear  old  white 
house.  I  hear  the  measured  soughing  of  the 
wind  through  the  tossing  trees :  the  bark  of  the 
distant  watch  dog,  answered  from  the  hearth  rug 
by  a  short  stifled  growl  from  my  Newfoundland ; 
the  high  notes  of  a  quaint  Irish  song,  audible  by 
fits,  from  the  kitchen,  and  the  click  of  Florry's 
netting-needles,  as  she  finishes  the  purse  which  I 
am  to  carry,  aw  ay  in  the  morning. 

Every  thing  is  packed  up  and  gone  since  three 
o'clock,  down  to  the  vessel,  my  travelling  dress 


62  THE   BLOODSTONE. 

is  already  upon  me,  my  plaid  lies  over  the  back 
of  the  chair,  my  letters  and  passports  are  in  the 
breast  pocket  of  my  coat.  My  Mother  sits  in  her 
elbow  chair  beside  her  work  table,  and  I,  as 
though  I  were  a  boy  again,  ain  on  a  low  stool  at 
her  feet,  with  my  head  upon  her  knees. 

"  Paul,"  she  says,  "  by  this  time  to-morrow 
night  you  will,  if  you  have  a  fan-  wind,  be  out  at 
sea,  and  your  home  will  be  invisible  to  you. — 
Florry  and  I  will  be  very  sad,  my  boy,  when  we 
sit  alone  here  to-morrow." 

There  is  a  slight  trembling  in  her  voice,  and 
Florry  bends  down  more  over  her  netting,  while 
I  put  up  my  hands  and  take  hold  of  that  which 
is  lying  on  my  head,  and  pull  it  around  my  neck 
and  hold  it  there. 

"  It  is  a  very  grand  and  wonderful  world,  that 
old  Europe  that  you  are  going  to,  and  you  will 
see  much  to  amuse  you  and  instruct  you,  but 
amid  the  stately  palaces,  the  grand  old  churches, 
the  glorious  galleries  of  art,  and  the  pomp  of  ad 
vanced  civilization,  I  know  that  you  will  not  for 
get  the  green  woods  and  hills,  and  the  warm 
beauty  of  home,  will, you,  Paul  ?' 

I  try  >to  say  "  never,"  but  as  it  does  not  come 
very  easily  I  keep  silent. 

"  You  propose  to  be  absent  three  or  four  years 


• 


*• 


LEAVING  HOME.  63 

In  that  time  we  do  not  know  what  our  Heavenly 
Father  may  determine  for  us.  Young  as  you  and 
Florry  are,  you  may  both  die,  or  what  is  more 
likely  in  the  course  of  nature,  I  may  be  called 
away,  and  never  see  your  face  on  earth  again." 

Florry  is  now  crying  quietly,  and  I  feel  as 
though  I  were  choking,  but  the  tears  do  not  come 
yet. 

"  Paul,  my  dear  son,  we  will  hope  to  meet 
again  even  here.  But  if  it  may  not  be  so,  then 
in  the  presence  of  God  hereafter.  Paul,  whatso 
ever  may  be  your  temptations,  whether  they  come 
from  the  enemies  of  religion,  or  from  your  own 
observation  of  the  faults  and  short-comings  of 
its  ministers  and  professors,  hold  fast  steadfastly 
to  your  Faith.  The  faith  in  which  you  have 
been  nurtured  and  in  which  your  mother  will  die. 
This  was  given  me  by  your  father  and  has  never 
left  my  bosom,  now  Paul,  promise  that  it  shall 
never  leave  yours.  Then  besides  its  own  -holier  sig 
nification,  it  will  always  keep  the  memory  of  your 
parents  fresh  in  your  heart."  . 

She  takes  a  small  golden  cross  from  her  bo- 
eom,  passes  the  cord  of  it  about  my  neck  and  slips 

the  cross  under  my  cravaf. 

* 
"  Do  you  promise,  Paul  ?" 

•  x'-  t  •  '*••'"•  "«'.,-.- 

*  t 


64  THE    BLOODSTONE. 

"  Yes,  mama,  on  my  honor,  it  shall  never  be 
taken  by  me  from  where  you  place  it  now." 

"  Fortunately,"  she  continues,  "  I  can  allow 
you  abundance  of  money  to  carry  out  your  de 
signs.  You  will  probably  have  more  than  a  ma 
jority  of  your  fellow  students/  But  be  careful 
to  avoid  any  ostentation,  it  is  unworthy  of  you, 
and  as  you  are  a  gentleman,  is  entirely  unneces 
sary  to  procure  you  any  station  that  you  may  de 
sire.  Be  generous,  but  not  prodigal ;  whatsoever 
you  have  above  your  own  needs,  you  only  hold 
in  trust  for  such  as  are  poorer  than  yourself. — 
Make  as  many  family  acquaintances  as  you  can. 
Of  course  at  your  age,  you  will  naturally  be  drawn 
into  friendship  with  young  men  of  your  age,  but 
choose  carefully.  Seek  especially,  the  society  of 
ladies;  their  refining  influence  is  necessary  to  all 
men,  and  pass  as  much  time  as  possible  in  family 
circles,  that  home  influences  may  never  become 
unpleasant  nor  unfamiliar  to  you.  And  may  God 
our  Father,  bless  and  preserve  my  darling  boy, 
keep  him  from  every  evil,  and  restore  him  to  his 
mother  and  his  sister,  unstained  and  improved  by 
his  absence  !" 

As  my  mother  speaks  the  last  sentence  I  slip 
from  my  stool  upon  my  knees,  and  bow  my  head 
down  on  her  lap ;  and  now  the  tears  stream  freely. 


LEAVING     HOME.  65 

(  •   .  .      , 

"And  now,  my  son,  it  is  bed  time,  kiss  your 
sister  and  retire,  for  you  must  rise  early  to-mor 
row  morning." 

.  Then  I  take  Florry  in  my  arms  and  cover  her 
with  kisses,  and  go  to  my  room.  But  after  mid 
night,  as  I  lie^  thinking,  I  hear  the  door  open 
softly,  and  my  mother  comes  in  with  a  candle  in 
her  hand.  She  is  weeping  silently.  I  know  that 
this  visit  is  too  sacred  even  for  me  to  know  of, 
and  I  pretend  to  be  asleep.  So  she  sets  the  can 
dle  down  near  the  door,  and  comes  and  kneels 
down  by  my  bedside,  and  prays  there  for  ten 
minutes,  and  then  rises  and  looks  at  me  for  a 
while  steadfastly.  Then  with  fingers  soft  and 
gentle,  she  lifts  a  lock  pf  my  hair,  and  cuts  it  off; 
and  then  bows  down  and  drops  a  light,  fond 
kiss  upon  my  cheek,  and  blesses  me  silently,  and 
so  goes  away.  And  I  lie  still,  lest  any  movement 
should  disturb  her  tears,  which  I  feel  are  lying 
on  my  face.  "  , 

A  restkss  night  brightens  into  dawn,  and  the 
grey  dawn  purples  into  da,y.  I  rise  and  dress 
myself,  commend  my  soul  to  the  protection  of 
Heaven,  and  go  down  stairs. 

Breakfast  is  a  sad  affair,  but  soon  over — and  a 
carriage  is  at  the  door.  Old  Soc  comes  in  to  say 


66  THE    BLOODSTONE. 

'  good  bye.'  My  mother  gives  him  a  purse  of 
money  and  a  stout  silver  watch,  and  he  kisses  her 
hand  without  speaking. 

"  You  will  take  good  care  of  Paul,  won't  you, 
Soc  ?" 

Soc  does  not  reply,  but  his  lips  twitch  and 
tremble.  Then  Florry  goes  up  to  him  and  puts 
round  his  neck  a  great  worsted  comforter,  and 
says, 

"  I  knitted  that  for  you  myself,  Soc.  Good 
bye." 

He  takes  her  hand,  but  she  says, 

"  Here,  old  Soc !"  and  holds  out  her  sweet 
fresh  cheek  to  him. 

Old  Soc  looks  astonished  for  a  moment,  then 
bends  and  kisses  the  fair  cheek,  and  blubbers, 

"  Gora'mighty  bless  Miss  Florry  and  Missus," 
and  so  goes  crying  from  the  room. 

Then  Florry  gives  me  her  purse.  There  is 
something  round  and  hard  in  one  end  of  it,  and  I 
know  that  when  I  shall  examine  it  to-night — far, 
far  from  home,  I  shall  find  a  locket  with  mama's 
hair  and  her  own  in  it. 

Then  the  last  kiss  and  the  last  blessing,  and 
the  boy  goes  forth  from-  his  home — from  his 
loving  mother  and  sister — from  his  dreamy  child- 


L  E  A  V  I  N  G      H  O  M  E  . 


67 


hood,  out  over  the  great  sea,  into  the  stormy 
world.  There  to  battle,  to  enjoy,  to  suffer,  with 
what  patient  courage  God  shall  give  him. 


' 


-~  '*  '....»"  I 

-  •*,*«  '\ 

•-•*.:        * '    : 


VII. 


™ 


THE  first  days  of  one's  first  voyage  are  seldom 
devoted  either  to  marine  observation-,  acqui 
sition  of  sailorship,  or  meditation  on  the  land  just 
forsaken.  Most  persons,  I  fancy,  spend  a  day  or 
two,  or  maybe  six,  lying  on  their  backs  on  those 
w,retched  shelves  which  the  captain  and  steward 
are  pleased  to  call  berths.  There  is  a  general 
suspension  of  all  the  mental  faculties,  the  chronic 
condition  of  intellect  is  a  calm  stupidity.  Per. 
haps  if  you  are  in  the  lower  berth,  you  may  won- 


*  >'  % 


UEBERSEE.-  69 

der  whether  your  superior  will  fall  through  upon 
you  soon :  if  you  are  in  the  upper  berth,  whether 
,you  are  to  be  pitched  out  upon  the  floor,  or  whe 
ther  the  side  of  the  vessel  is  not  just  about  to 
give  way  and  precipitate  you  into  the  sea. 

Sometimes  a  very  faint  idea  of  getting  up,  at 
some  period  indefinitely  distant,  presents  itself  to 
you,  but  disappears  again  without  any  active  re 
sult.  One  day,  however,  there  eomes  a  calm,  and 
you  go  up  on  deck  ;  and  when  you  see  3  our  fel 
low  passengers  crawling  out  after  you,  you  try 
to  walk  steadily  and  to  hum  a  song  for  the  pur 
pose  of  creating  an  impression  that  you  have  been 
actively  employed  ever  since  you  left  port,  and 
am  not  a  man  subject  to  such  mortal  weaknesses 
as  sea-sickness. 

Such  at  least  was  my  case.  But  the  fresh  air 
did  me  a  great  deal  of  good,  and  even  when 
roughest  weather  returned,  I  had  no  relapse  into 
sea-sickness,  thou'gh  an  occasional  momentary 
qualm  would  come.  The  second  day  .of  my  ap 
pearance  on  deck  I  was  leaning  over  the  stern 
railing,  looking  down  in  the  swelling  wake  of  the 
ship,  aad  yielding  to  that  dreamy  sensation  that 
always  comes  by  long  gazing  into  fast  running 
water,  when  my  arm  was  touched  and  these  words 
were  uttered — 


'** 


70  T  H  E     B  L  6  O  T)  8  T  O  N  fi  . 

"  Come  away  from  clar,  massa  Pol,  suppose  dat 
little  fence  break,  den  down  you  go  gone  drown 
ed.  What  ole  Soc  say  to  missus  den,  suppose  ?" 

"  Hulloh  1  old  Soc  1  where  did  you  come 
from  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  most  done  gone,  massa  Pol,  dis  ole  fel 
low  been  wonderful  sick.  Yes,  you  may  laugh  ; 
you  git  sick  like  I  was,  and  you  stop  laughin',  I 
tell  you." 

But  one  would  have  required  a  much 
less  irritable  risibility  than  I  possessed,  not  to 
laugh  at  the  figure  before  me.  Soc  had  on  a  pair 
of  thick  pilot  cloth  trousers,  huge  slippers,  a  flan 
nel  shirt  and  a  blanket.  His  woolly  head  and 
his  whole  person  were  covered  with  down,  one 
or  two  longish  feathers  standing  up  here  and  there 
from  his  cranium.  His  face  had  that  extraordi 
nary  hue  which  a  sick  nigger  always  displays. 
The  polish  was  gone,  and  internal  paleness  seem 
ed  struggling  to  get  through  the  opaque  skin,  and 
produced  an  odd  grey  tint  like  what  is  called  Ox 
ford  gray.  His  lips  were  half  open,  and  his  eyes 
exhibited  a  most  quizzical  mixture  of  fear  and  dis 
gust. 

i 

"Well,  old  fellow,"  said  I,  "I  have  been  sick 

also  until  yesterday,  and  indeed  am  not  yet  quite 


! 


,. 


UEBERSEE.  71 

well.     But  how  have  you  got  over  your   sick 
ness  ?" 

"  TOOK  doctor's  stuff,  fnassa  Pol',  werry  good  he 
wos  too.  Ole. doctor  knows  werry  well  what's 
good  for  ole  Soc  when  he  sick  to  his  stummick." 
There  was  a  queer  twinkle  in  the  old  fellow's 
eye,  and  I  asked  him,-r— 

"  What  did  he  give  you,  Soc." 

"  Ole  Jamaiky,"  said  Soc,  with  one  of  those 
African  explosions  of  laughter  which  are  so  ut 
terly  irresistible. 

A  jolly  laugh  rose  behind  us,  and  a  gentleman, 
plump,  good  looking  and  middle-aged,  stepped 
between  Soc  and  me,  saying  to  the  former, 

"  So  my  medicine  did  you  good  ?" 

"  Yes,  Massa  Doctor,  good  stuff  dat.  Suppose 
doctor  give  Massa  Pol  a  teeny  drop,  he  little  sick 
too.  That's  Massa  Pol." 

I  bowed,  upon  this  introduction  arid  examined 
the  Doctor.  He  was  short,  very  portly,  and 
neatly  dressed  in  Shepherd's  tartan.  An  im 
mense  white  forehead  was  framed  in  short  blonde 
curls  ;  and  his  large,  clear,  blue  eyes  were  full  of 
intelligence.  And  yet  in  his  jerky  motions,  as 
well  as  in  his  expression  there  was  very  evident 
oddity.  And  you  could  see  through  the  clear 
azure  of  his  eyes  that  there  was  much  drollery  in- 


72  THE    BLOODSTONE. 

side  of  him.  Fun  lay  at  the  bottom  of  them  like 
a  pebble  at  the  bottom  of  a  spring.  - 

"  This  is  your  servant  I  suppose,  sir?" 

"  Yes,  and  my  good  old  friend." 

"  He  has  given  me  a  good  deal  of  information 
about  you,  so  that  I  know  you  already.  Have 
you  suffered  much  from  sea-sickness  ?" 

"  Yes,  and  feel  a  little  squeamish  even  now." 

"  I  have  a  capital  anti-naaseate  here,  try  a  lit 
tle."  And  as  he  spoke  he  drew  a  vial  from  his 
pocket,  emptied  half  of  it  into  a  small  crystal  cup 
and  handed  it  to  me.  I  drank  it,  and  found  it  as 
Soc  had  said  to  be  very  old,  oily  Jamaica  rum. — 
And  its  medicinal  virtues  were  certainly  great, 
**)r  it  removed  my  slight  nausea  at  once. 

"  Going  to  Germany,  your  servant  tells  me?" 

"  Yes,  to  Bonn,  to  the  University." 

"  Hem,  good  place  too,  if  you  go  to  study  ;•  bad 
if  you  go  to  renown  it.  I  have  a  nephew  whom 
I  shall  send  there  as  soon  as  I  get  home.  My 
nephew  Franz,  Franz  Von  Bergen.  You  can 
remember  the  name  if  you  should  meet  there." 

"  You  are  a  German  then,  sir?" 

"  Ah,  a  complimentary  question.  It  appears  I 
have  no  Teutonic  accent  when  I  speak  English. 
Yes,  young  sir,  I  am  a  German — more  than  that 
I  am  a  Rhinelander.  I  live  in  Andernach." 


IJEBEROEE.  <d 

"  Indeed,  do  you  know  a  gentleman  named 
Eustace  there  ?" 

"Very  well,  he  is  my  neighbor.  Married  a 
Rhine  girl  for  second  wife."  '*",  • 

"  I  have  letters  for  him  and  for  Dr.  Hoffnitz." 

"  H'm,  I  know  him  too." 

"  An  excellent,  worthy  man,  I  have  heard." 

"  Not  so  good  as  might  be  desired,  yet  not  all 
bad,  perhaps.  A  bit  of  a  humorist,  they  say  in 
Andernuch.  Bo  you  speak  German  ?" 

"  Why,  a  little,  as  one  learns  it  with  us,  but  my 
ear  is  quite  uncultivated." 

1    1  :  "  .  •  •    .        •       •  '.'••'* 

"  You  must  let  me  be  your  tutor  then,  and  our 
communications  for  the  future  shall  be  in  that 
tongue."  The  plump  physician  then  questioned 
me  a  little  about  my  family  and  myself ;  offered 
me  the  books  contained  in  his  cabin,  and  gave 
me  certainly  alimentary  directions. 

"  Always  be  regular  and  careful  about  your 
food,  especially  when  studying ;  it  is  only  by  at 
tention  to  that,  that  a  man  ever  arrives  at  much 
eminence.  The  stomach  is  the  seat  of  the  intel- 
lect." 

The  doctor  then  filled  and  lighted  an  enormous 
porcelaine  pipe,  the  whole  front  of  which  was  em 
blazoned  with  a  heavily  charged  coat  of  arms ; 

bade  uie  good  morning,  went  pulliug  along  the 

7 

• 


--  -          - 

74  THE   BLOODSTONE. 

deck  and  disappeared  into  the  steerage,  to  visit  a 
patient. 

Thanks  to  his  kindness  on  board,  I  learned  to 
speak  well  as  much  German  as  I  had  learned 
from  books,  quite  enough  to  secure  me  from  an- 
noyan^e  even  at  the  beginning  of  my  sojourn  in 
the  land  of  Herman!  Our  voyage  was  rapid  and 
agreeable,  and,  after  a  week  in  London,  we  cross 
ed  to  Rotterdam  and  so  up  the  Rhine  to  Cologne, 

Here  the  doctor  had  a  niece  at  school,  and  he  per- 

'  "       ''**'*  '  ^ 

suaded  me  to  spend  a  day  -there  and  go  up  the 

next  morning  in  the  steamer  with  him.  I  assent 
ed  willingly  enough,  and  passed  the  most  of  my 
time  in  and  about  the  Minster,  and  the  pipe  shops, 

where  I  left  a  sufficient  quantity  of  coin  in  ex- 

^7  -     ~"~  **  te-      * 

change  for  porcelaine  and  meerchaum  bowls  with 

stems  of  weichsel  and  jasmin  amber-tipped. 

As  I  sate  the  next  morning  upon  the  deck  of 
the  boat,  about  the  time  of  starting,  I  saw  my 
portly  friend  coming  down  the  wharf,  followed  by 
a  much  over -laden  po'rter.  Upon  his  arm  hung 
a  lady  clad  in  a  plain  grey  travelling  dress,  which 
by  no  means  hid  the  swaying  outlines  of  a  beau 
tiful  form.  An  impenetrable  veil  hid  her  face, 
but  as  she  stepped  upon  the  plank,  a  little  grey- 
gloved  hand  lifted  the  dress  just  enough  to  ex 
hibit  a  most  excellent  dainty  foot.  Then  the 


U  E  B  E  R       S  E  E  .  75 

-'••*•'  — •'  * 

whistle  sounded  and  the  bell  clanged,  and  as  the 
boat  moved  on  I  fell  into  a  reverie. 

It  was  not  however  of  very  long  duration. — 
The  doctor  and  his  charge  soon  appeared  beside 
me,  and  the  former  saluted  me  with  hearty  voice, 

"  Guten  morgen,  Herr'  Calvert.  Glad  to  see 
you  so  fresh  looking  this  morning.  This,  young 
sir,  is  my  niece  the  Fraulein  Marie  von  Bergen, 
hochwohlgeborne  and  so  forth.  Marie,  my  dar 
ling,  this  is  Mr.  Galvert,  of  whom  I  have  told 
you." 

Fraulein  von  Bergen  raised  her  veil,  and  put 
out  her  hand  with  German  frank  simplicity. 

She  was  very  glad  to  see  me,  she  said,  for  she 
was  very  curious  about  America,  and  her  uncle 
always  teased  her  with  Miinchausen  stories  when 
she  questioned  him ;  but  now  she  would  be  able 
to  get  some  correct  information  from  me. 

And  from  Cologne  to  Audernach  we  talked,  I 
about  America,  and  she  of  her  convent  school- 
life.  Of  cross  sister  Ursula,  who  had  a  mole  up 
on  her  nose  and  never  put  sugar  enough  in  the 
coffee ;  of  the  stately  Mother,  whom  all  the  girls 
stood  so  much  in  awe  of;  and  of  sister  Angela, 
who  was  so  slight  and  beautiful,  and  who  died 

of  consumption  and  was  buried  under  the  big 

^^ 

linden  in  the  early  days  of  Spring. 


76  THE    BLOODSTONE. 

She  pointed  out,  also,  all  the  remarkable  scenes 
upon  the  river,  aiid  told  me  their  legends ;  how 
Siegfried  slew  the  maid-devouring  monster  of 
Drachenfels,  and  how  Roland  pined  away  and 
died  for  his  lost  Hildegonda ;  of  good  Libra  of 
Treuenfels,  and  her  blind  father,  and  how  her 
filial  affection  was  rewarded,  and  how  she  still 
sleeps  in  the  shadow  of  the  Siebengebirge.  Then 
she  requested  to  see  my  Moor,  as  she  called  him, 
and  Soc  was  brought  forward  and  presented  in 
due  form.  Finding  French  and  German  of  no 
avail,  she  tried  him  in  fragmentary  English,  and 
at  the  first  sound  of  that  he  began  to  talk,  and  the 
two  had  a  conversation  of  five  minutes,  of  which 
neither  probably  understood  a  single  phrase  spo 
ken  by  the  other.  Ole  Soc,  however,  was  en 
chanted,  and  pronounced  her  to  be  the  nicest 
'little  young  lady  he  had  ever  met  only  missus 
and  Miss  Fiorry.' 

During  this  time  I  had  leisure  to  observe  her. 
She  seemed  about  seventeen.  Her  face,  a  pure 
oval,  with  small,  clearly  cut  features.  In  repose, 
the  slightly  brunette  skin  was  transparently  pale, 
but  with  the  least  excitement  or  emotion  flushed 
redly,  as  the  blessed  sun's  uprising.  Soft  hair,  of 
•  a  deep  chesnut,  fell  in  heavy  curls  from  under  her 
bonnet;  and  her  large  eyes,  black  in  the  sha'1  "• 


V       ._,- 

UEBERSEE.  77 

and  golden  brown  in  the  sun,  varied  every  mo 
ment  in  expression  and  shade.  Her  form,  not  yet 
developed,  was  guiltless  of  angles,  every  outline 
was  curved,  and  consequently  every  motion  was 
graceful ;  and  her  bands  were  perfection. 

She  had  none  of  the  reserve  and  artificiality 
taught  by  society,  and  indeed  not  one  German 
girl  in  a  hundred,  out  of  Vienna  or  Berlin,  has  it. 
But  an  inborn  refinement,  an  unmistakeable  lady- 
ism,  was  evidently  hers ;  she  always  did  right  by 
instinct.  Before  many  hours  my  opinion  of  her 
was  in  consonance  with  .that  of  old  Soc. 

"  Do  you  see  that  tall  old  tower  there,  Herr 
Calvert  ?" 

"  Yes ;  what  a  superb  one  it  is ;  what  is  it  ?' 

"It  is  the  Koman  tower  of  Audernach,  and  to 
night  you  will  sleep  beneath  its  protection." 

"  But  you  call  it  Roman;  surely  those  pointed 
gables  and  crosses,  and  lancet  windows  are  not 
Roman." 

"  No ;  but  look  at  the  masonry  below.  It  is 
the  Latin  soldier  capped  with  a  mitre  of  the  mid 
dle  ages.  The  Roman  was  succeeded  by  a 
prince-bishop  here.  And  there,  see,  are  the 
towers  of  a  cathedral  nearly  eleven  hundred 
years  of  age,  and  there,  in  a  word,  are  all  sorts 


78  THE    BLOODSTONE. 

of  things  which  you  will  soon  learn  more  about 
than  I  can  tell  you." 

Most  of  the  time  the  doctor  had  been  near  us, 
reading  or  walking  up  and  down  the  deck,  medi 
tatively  smoking  or  throwing  in  an  occasional  re 
mark.  When  we  landed,  he  kindly  saw  to  my 
baggage,  and  he  and  his  niece  walked  with  me  to 
the  Lilian  Hof,  the  Lily  Hotel,  where  their  car 
riage  was  waiting. 

"  Good  bye,"  he  said  at  parting,  "you  will  hear 
from  rne  in  a  day  or  two." 

"Adieu  Herr  Calvert,"  said  the  lady,  "you 
must  come  and  see  us  soon,  and  learn  to  know 
my  brother  Franz.  Good-a-bai  meester  Soc 
rates."  And  so  they  were  gone. 

Having  seen  my  rooms  and  despatched  a  note 
to  Mr.  Eustace,  who  resided  out  of  town,  I  took 
advantage  of  the  moonlight  to  wander  about  the 
quaint  old  city.  I  looked  at  the  fortifications,  at 
the  northern  gate,  surmounted  by  the  antique 
episcopal  arms  at  the  western  gate,  over  which 
odd  Saracenic  heads  frown  grimly ;  the  Roman 
tombs  upon  the  Kirchberg,  the  aged  grey  Nor 
man  cathedral,  the  fifteenth  century  gothic  church 
of  St.  Genevieve;  the  walls  built  by  the  troops 
of  bold  Germanicus,  but  copestoned  centuries  af 
ter  by  the  priestly  rulers  of  the  town ;  the  swift 


UEBERSEE-.  79 

rushing  of  the  turbid  Ehine ;  the  hills  covered 
with  vineyards,  which  formed  the  background  of 
the  cily.  The  tall,  high  gabled  houses,  unlike 

•       Tr  *   '•  ' 

some  ladies,  wore  the  date  of  their  birth  in  iron 
ciphers  on  their  fronts.  Music  sounded  from  the 
public  gardens;  the  drum  of  the  Prussian  bar 
rack  called  home  the  wandering  soldier ;  the 
church  bell  sounded  curfew,  the  hour  of  evening 
prayer;  and  I  went  home  to  bed  and  dreamed 
that  I  was  a  centurion  in  the  army  of  Germanicus 
aiding  the  old  doctor,  who  had  become  a  thir 
teenth  century  bishop,  to  resist  the  aggression  of 
Arminius.  In  the  army  of  the  latter  methought 
there  was  a  troop  of  Barbary  Saracens  com 
manded  by  old  Soc.  And  finally  I. was  intro 
duced  by  Julius  Csesar  to  Marie  von  Bergen,  and 
in  a  violent  attempt  to  comprehend  her  Latin  de 
scription  of  a  vineyard,  I  awoke  to  see  the  glad 
sun  smiling  at  my  casement  and  to  hear  the  voice 
of  the  storied  Khine. 


•-'      •-   •  .      .-',  .     •,       -•          *»J 

Jp?*        ^ .  -  *.  *'      «»  ".-,'.  .       '     '        •  '•  *•     -' 

v^-'.jv';  .••s.";/  ;'>'-s''\  'V^  >::'"^''; 

;:;..,;,';,:.•• ;;:;;.     *.; , 


*>*'••« 

" 


VIII. 

J^to  g  tginnings . 


.  j# 


•:i-  ^ 

..* 


IN  the  wild  land  of  the  Grisons,  where  mel.in- 
choly  Sails  sang,  stand  the  two  mighty  Alps, 
Muschel-horn  and  Mittag-horn.  the  Mount  of 
Shells  and  the  Peak  of  the  Noonday.  They  have 
but  one  heart,  these  brother  mountains,  and  it 
beats  with  pulsations  mighty  as  the  sea's ;  but 
silently,  for  the  sea  is  frozen. 

Yet  when  the  sun  of  the  Noonday  showers  his 
burning  kisses  there,  the  ice-heart  melts  and 
weeps,  and  its  tears  are  called  the  RHINE. 


.;•  ^ " 

•  *  -   *«  '•* 

.*  *~-  !.*•>.. 


N  E  «r    BEGINNINGS.  81 

Slowly  it  steals  from  beneath  the  shadow  of  its 
parent  hills,  and  runs  through  Alpine-land  twist 
ing  amid  the  snow-crowned  heights  to  sweet  lake 
Constance,  and  mingles  with  the  calm  blue  waters 
of  that  renowned  sheet.  .  Then  on,  o'er  pebbly 
bed,  o'er  rocky  pass,  beneath  the  shades  of  old 
pine  forests,  by  sunny  vineyards  and  broad  pas 
ture  lauds,  to  the  wild  leap  at  Schaffhausen, 
where  vexed  and  torn,  it  foams  till  its  waves 
wax  white  with  wrath,  and  bounds  over  the  jag 
ged  descent,  and  so  grows  calm  ;  and  the  many- 
colored  rainbow  mingles  with  the  mist,  and  rests 
above  it,  a  perpetual  benediction,  and  Father 
Rhine  broadens  and  flows  on. 

Past  the  black  forest  to  the  quaint  city  of  Bale, 
where  the  storks  build  upon  the  churches,    ancN 
St.    George   kills  the  dragon,  on  the  Cathedral 
portals,  and  loungers  crowd  the  parapets  of  the 
bridge  looking  down  into  the  swift  waters. 

Past  the  shadow  of  that  mighty  temple  of 
Strasbourg,  renowned  in  history  and  sung  to  the 
quaint  chords  of  Longfellow's  lute  in  the  Golden 

Legend. 

There  are  painted 

Panes,  that  flame  like  gold  and  crimson   . 
And  the  apostles 

And  the  Martyrs  wrapped  in  mantle* 
Stand  as  warders  at  the  entrance, 
Stand  as  sentinels  o'er  head. 


82  THE    BLOODSTONE. 

On  goes  the  exulting  and  abounding  river,  to 
old  Mayence,  and  then  by  ruin  covered  heights 
and  vales  that  laugh  with  corn,  and  hills  that 
teem  with  wine,  past  haughty  Stolzenfels  to  Cob- 
lenz,  sleeping  in  the  shadow  of  Ehrenbreitstein 
the  Broad  Stone  of  honor. 

On  through  ten  thousand  legends  to  quaint 
Andernach,  Whose  ancient  walls  are  caressed  by 
the  -waters. 

Idol  of  every  German  heart :  theme  of  every 
German  harp  :  ch.iid  of  the  glacier  and  father  of 
the  land  of  Herman,  rolls  the  proud  river  on, 
on,  on  to  the  awful  sea,  and  falls  into  the  boson, 
of  that  mighty  mother,  and  rests  from  its  labors. 


My  first  thought  after  breakfast,  was  to  write 
letters  to  my  mother  and  sister,  which  occupied 
the  whole  morning  until  dinner  time,  that  impor 
tant  meal  occurring  at  half  past  two.  It  may  be 
fancied  that  my  first  German  dinner  made  an 
impression  upon  me.  The  table  d'  hote  half  filled, 
the  side  tables  covered  with  dishes,  hats,  cloaks, 
swords,  canes  and  umbrellas,  the  pretty  girls  in 
waiting,  and  the  fat  calm  of  the  inexpressive  land 
lord,  throned  in  state  at  the  end  of  the  board, 
'" 


NEW    BEGINNINGS.  83 

had  an  odd  look  as  I  entered.  Before  the  soup 
came,  I  had  an  opportunity  to  examine  my  con 
vives,  r  •«»«•" 

• '  *   j»  9 

There  were  two  fat  majors,  and  threa  fat  lieu 
tenants,  all  of  them  decorated.  There  was  a  pen 
sioned  Colonel  grizzly  and  obese,  from  whose  sol 
emn  button  hole  swung  seven  different-  orders, 
and  from-  whose  naturally  grim  visage,  a  sabre 
cut  beginning  on  the  left  temple,  and  going 
through  the  upper  lip,  had  taken  no  iota  of  grim- 
ness.  There  -were  two  or  three  plump  good  na- 
tured  looking  ladies,  and  a  little  withered  fig  of 
an  official  whose  name  contained  but  one  syllable 
and  whose  title  rejoiced  in  thirteen— It  was  the 
Herr  Koniglicher  -  hoch  -  ober  -  steuer  -  Inspektor 
Heip.  He  was  about  four  feet  two  inches  tall, 
two  inches  and  a  half  being  boot  heel,  but  his 
self  importance  was  immeasurable. 

The  ladies  conversed,  but  the  men  preserved  a 
solemn  silence.  A  few  munched  their  bread ;  one 
bored  little  holes  in  the  table  cloth  with  his  fork, 
irately  observed  by  the  black-eyed  dienst  mad- 
chen.  All  were  elaborately  napkined  ;  and  when 
the  door  opened  on  the  kitchen  side  of  the  hall, 
and  the  odor  of  soup  arose,  each  grasped  his 
spoon,  a  faint  smile  passed  round  the  table  and 
as  the  pottage  was  placed  before  them,  they  emit- 


84  THE    BLOODSTONE. 

ted  a  low  grunt  of  contentment,  and  fell  manfully 
to  work. 

Every  one  who  came  in,  wished  the  feeders 
"  guteu  appetit,"  and  they  grumbled  low  respon- 
ces  to  their  spoons.  It  was  a  surprise  to  me  that 
the  roast  beef  which  followed  the  soup  should  be 
Bour,  and  I  was  about  to  put  my  share  away, 
when  I  observed  marks  of  a  general  satisfaction 
on  the  part  of  the  guests,  and  remembered  that 
some  one  had  said  "  In  German  cookery  all  ia 
vinegar  that  is  not  grease,  all  greasy  that  is  not 
sour."  I  was  not  prepared  to  see  fish  follow  the 
roast :  neither  did  I  expect  the  pastry  and  mar 
malades  which  succeeded  the  fish,  nor  the  huge 
joints  of  roasted  pork  and  veal  that  came  after 
the  pastry,  nor  the  chickens  that  chased  the  roast 
away  to  make  room  in  turn  for  a  course  of  cray 
fish  and  tooth-picks.  The  worthy  Teutons  ate 
of  all  the  plates,  and  sighed  as  the  last  disap 
peared. 

Before  the  dinner  was  half  over  I  heard  an 
occasional  remark,  and  by  the  time  we  got  to  the 
crayfish  there  was  a  general  buzz  of  slow  con 
versation  along  which  rumbled  occasionally  some 
chuckle-born  ponderous  pleasantry.  It  appeared 
as  though  the  voices  had  been  shut  up  in  the 
meats  and  had  to  be  chewed  out  before  they  could 


NEW     BEGINNINGS.  85 

become  audible ;  or  as  if,  according  to  my  friend 
the  doctors  idea,  the  intellect  was  situated  in  the 
stomach,  where  its  business  was  to  fill  the  vacuum 
until  driven  upward  for  the  edification  of  man 
kind,  by  the  masses  of  food  that  descended  to  dis 
lodge  it. 

More  rambling  about  the  quaint,  twisted 
streets ;  and  a  chat  with  old  Soc  prepared  me 
for  a  sound  and  refreshing  sleep  and  a  good  ap 
petite  for  my  breakfast.  That  initiatory  meal 
having  been  discussed,  i  resolved  to  attack  my 
longest  and  largest  pipe.  I  filled  it  with  the 
gravity  becoming  a  German  student,  and  finding 
my  arm  too  snort  to  reach  the  bowl,  I  directed 
Soc  to  light  it,  which  action  he  performed  in  a 
etate  of  great  amazement.  I  feel  myself  author 
ized  to  declare  that  the  first  whiff  had  the  most 
undisguisedly  nasty  taste  known  to  my  gustative 
organs  :  puff  the  second  made  my  mouth  water 
profusely ;  puff  the  third  brought  tears  to  my 
eyes ;  my  head  swam  round  at  puff  the  fourth  ; 
and  chancing  to  swallow  the  moiety  of  number 
five,  I  put  my  pipe  away  in  a  corner  and  lay  down 
on  my  back  upon  the  sofa.  It  was  months  before 
I  learned  to  smoke  as  a  Bursch  is  bound  to  do. 
.Half  an  hour  afterward,  as  I  sat  meditating  at 

my  window,  looking  out  into  the  paved  square  in 
'•<•     8 


-*•          '*',** 

86  THE    BLOODSTONE. 

front  of  the  Hotel,  I  saw  a  stout  German  girl 
issue  from  a  side  street  and  begin  to  cross  the 
square.  Upon  one  arm  she  held  a  fat  baby,  on 
the  other  ^a  large,  oval,  heavy-looking  bundle. 
As  she  reached  the  middle  of  the  square  the 
bundle  slipped,  and  when  by  a  sudden  clutch  she 
caught  it  back  to  its  original  position,  the  motion 
dislodged  the  baby  and  he  began  to  .slide  towards 
the  ground.  Instinctively  the  girl  pressed  her 
arm  towards  her  body  arid  the  baby  was  arrested 
by  the  neck.  Theri  the  hand  was  cautiously 
moved  downward  and  a  quick  catch  renewed 
possession  of  the  baby,  and,  at  the  expense  of 
showing  a  considerable  quantity  of  blue  worsted 
ankle  of  more  than  ordinary  dimensions,  she  man- 
aged  to  hoist  him  to  his  original  position.  But 
he  was  not  quite  fairly  seated  when  the  bundle 
slipped  again;  and  in  recovering  the  bundle, 
down  went  the  baby,  till  the  poor  girl  finally  saw 
both  deposited  at  her  feet  upon  the  stones,  and 
after  an  imbecile  gaze  of  a  minute  or  so,  she  put 
her  hands  in  her  pockets  and  lifted  up  her  voice 
and  wept. 

Then  1  saw  old  Soc  approach  her,  and  she 
stared  at  him  with  undisguised  horror,  being 
probably  the  first  black  man  she  had  ever  seen. 
As  he  drew  nearer,  his  intention  of  lifting  the 


NEW    BEGINNINGS.  87 

baby  became  evident ;  arid  she  with  a  scream 
darted  forward,  thrust  a  letter  into  his  hand,  and 
possessing  herself  of  her  loads  in  some  mysterious 
manner  scuttled  over  the  flagging,  turned  a  cor 
ner  and  was  seen  no  more. 

Old  Soc  was  in  a  state  of  extreme  indignation. 

"  Huh  !"  I  heard  him  say,  "  guess  de  gal  think 
ole  Soc  debbil."  Then,  scratching  his  head  and 
gazing  hopelessly  on  the  letter,  he  approached 
the  house.  In  a  few  minutes  he  came  into  my 
room,  saying  that  the  fat  landlord  declared  the 
epistle  to  be  mine ;  though  Soc  said  the  writing 
looked  more  like  a  "  cat  track  dan  Massa  Pol'a 
name."  But  it  was  for  me. 

Zum  Herrn, 

Herr  Paulus  von  Calver,, 

Hachwohlgeborne 
Zum  Lilienhof 

Andernach. 

The  "  high- well  born  Paulus"  opened  the  epis 
tle  and  found  it  to  contain  the  information  that 
Mr.  Eustace  and  lady  had  gone  to  Vienna  and 
would  not  return  for  three  weeks  :  that  the  writer 
Claudius  Hoffnitz  would  send  a  carriage  for  the 
"  high  well-born  Paulus"  on  the  morrow ;  and 
that  the  said  Paulus  would  make  the  doctor's 
house  his  home  until  the  return  of  Mr.  Eustace. 


88  THE    BLOODSTONE. 

The  letter  concluded  with  the  assertion  that 
Claudius  Hoffuitz  was  "of  my  high-well-born 
honor,  the  most  well-wishing  and  obedient  ser 
vant." 

On  the  next  day  the  promised  vehicle  appeared 
and  carried  me  to  the  home  of  Dr.  Hoffnitz, 
whom,  to  my  surprise  and  gratification,  I  discov 
ered  to  be  my  fellow  traveller  and  the  uncle  of 
Marie  von  Bergen 

How  it  happened  that  I  had  never  learned  his 
name  I  do  not  know,  I  suppose  from  the  fact 
that  he  had  introduced  himself  to  me  as  the  uncle 
of  Franz  von  Bergen,  and  my  having  taken  it  for 
granted  that  he  bore  the  same  name. 

His  house  was  some  two  miles  from  Ander- 
nach,  up  the  river,  at  the  foot  of  a  hill  green 
with  vines.  Looking  from  its  broad  piazza  you 
saw  the  low  hills  of  Fahr,  crowned  in  the  dis 
tance  by  Mont-repos  the  summer  palace  of  the 
Prince  of  Wied.  Just  across  the  river  lay  the 
small  town  of  Newwied,  its  tall  spires  and  the 
rich  foliage  of  the  Castle  Park  shining  in  the 
sun.  Far  back  of  that  rose  the  forest  crowned 
highlands,  and  the  stern  old  Ruin  of  Braunsberg, 
huge  as  a  Coliseum,  frowned  gloomily  above. 
Further  up  still,  Weisenthurm  nestled  amid 
vines :  the  heights  of  Princely  Sayn  were  visible, 


NEW    BEGINNINGS.  89 

and  the  light  glinted  on  the  lofty  battlements  of 
impregnable  Ehrenbreitstein. 

The  house  was  large  and  admirably  divided. 
Of  stiff,  single  chairs  there  were  none :  but 
comfortable  arm  chairs  and  fat  cozy  sofas  gave 
promise  that  sitting  should  be  less  difficult  than 
standing.  The  inlaid,  oaken  floors  were  spotless 
and  polished,  but  as  in  most  German  houses, 
there  were  no  carpets.  But  vases,  filled  with 
drooping  vines  swung  from  the  cieliivgs  in  the 
windows  ;  and  just  a  sufficient  number  of  bronzes 
and  good  pictures  hung  upon  the  walls  or  stood 
on  brackets  and  in  niches. 

This  then  was  my  home  for  three  weeks ;  for 
it  does  not  require  time  to  feel  at  home  with  a 
German  family.  "Warm-hearted,  frank  and  sim 
ple,  they  speak  their  welcome  in  a  way  that  re- 
quires  no  after  assurances,  and  in  a  week  they 
seem  to  you  as  old  life-long  friends.  My  time 
was  passed  in  visiting  the  environs.  Now  to  ru 
ined  Braunsberg  :  again  to  the  magnificent  palace 
of  the  Prince  of  Sayn  :  down  the  Rhine  to  Royul 
Eeineck  ;  up  t»  haughty  Stolzenfells  :  sometimes 
to  drink  coffee  in  the  gardens  of  N«tte-haus . 
sometimes  to  gloomy  lake  Laacher,  whose  icy 
waters  sleep,  restlessly,  in  the  crater  of  an  extinct 
volcaoo,  and  from  whose  eastern  shore  well  up 


90  THEBLOODSTONE. 

mephitic  streams  like  those  of  the   Grotto   del 
Cane. 

Now  in  all  these  wanderings  or  nearly  all 
Franz  and  Marie  and  the  good  old  doctor  were 
with  me.  And  the  brown  eyed  Rhine  girl  wove 
the  strings  of  my  heart  around  her,  and  1  wrote 
worse  verses  and  dreamed  worse  dreams  than 
even  in  my  idle  youth  at  home. 

Then  Mr.  Eustace  returned  .and  I  went  to  re 
side  at  his  house  which  was  henceforth  to  be  my 
home  during  the  vacations.  It  was  but  a  few 
hundred  yards  from  the  doctor's,  and  so  I  still 
saw  Marie  every  day. 

Then  the  time  for.  going  to  the  University  arri 
ved,  and  Franz  and  I  went  down  and  matriculated 
at  Bonn. 


•  €.,    ]..  _ 

"    ^ 

^|  V                      .           ''* 

*-*"^fc'   .                .                 J^^"~. 

-*  •*«- 

•4|f 

.? 

i 

, 

•--«i^  ' 

1 

'  .  *V  *"^v 

- 


•-p-»«*~l .. 

•  .* 

<*  •  •  •  •;  -.  »•  >.  c  • "• 
•  v--y.r  tr  -v- 


IX. 

--'.V--.-      .,jj,- 

g  I00H10ne. 


I  WILL  not  attempt  to  describe  my  life  ac  tne 
University,  for  American  and  English  readers 
have  both  been  rendered  tolerably  familiar  with 
the  manners  and  habits  of  the  German  Stu'dents ; 
and  nothing  out  of  the  common  course  of  adven 
ture  fell  to  my  share. 

I  had  a  collection  of  meerchaum  and  porcelain 
pipes  and  smoked  therein  Varinas  and  Knaster ; 
I  had  Schlagers  and  learned  to  use  them ;  I  had 
beer  mugs  of  "Bohemian  glass,  of  tinted  clay,  of 


92  THE    BLOODSTONE. 

»  •  •  « 

South  American  ox-horu  ;  and  tall,  old  variously 
colored  wine-glasses  for  Liebfraumilch,  or  As- 
manshausen  or  Rudesherner  or  Braunerberger 
as  the  case  might  be.  I  wore  a  small  embroid 
ered  cap,  and  a  velvet-coat  embossed  with  abun 
dant  braid  and  fair  white  gauntlets  of  rein-deer 
skin. 

I  knew  the  songs  and  chorusses  most  in  fashion, 
could  play  a  little  on  half-a-dozen  instruments ; 
sketch  well  enough  to  give  an  idea  of  a  Rhineland 
ruin :  study  sufficiently  to  keep  a  respectable  po 
sition  in  the  esteem  of  the  Professors.  I  hated 
and  annoyed  Philistines.  I  was  always  ready  to 
play  my  part  in  a  commers,  to  bow  saucily  to  a 
pretty  girl,  to  join  in  the  peasants'  dances — in  a 
vord,  -I  was  a  Bursch. 

No  German  student  could  exist  without  a 
schatz  or  sweetheart,  and  a  briulerfreund  a  brother 
friend,  with  whom  you  swear  fraternity  amid  the 
clang  of  glasses  and  seal  the  vow  with  a  kiss 
upon  the  lips. 

The  former  of  these  essentials  I  had  found  in 
Marie  von  Bergen,  and  the  latter  in  her  brother 
Franz.  It  was  not  altogether  because  Franz  was 
her  brother  that  I  loved  him  and  formed  with 
him  the  almost  passionate  friendship  which  united 
us ;  for  he  was,  truly,  the  most  loveable  man  I 


fc  , 
THEBLOODSTONE.  93 

have  ever  known.  Generous,  devoted,  impas 
sioned  and  yet  not  quick-tempered,  the  only  in 
stance  of  this  that  I  have  seen.  Eminently  hand 
some  in  the  same  style  as  his  sister,  with  heavy 
brown  silken  curls  falling  down  upon  his  shoul 
ders  :  dressed  fancifully  and  with  a  full  share  of 
the  graceful  and  innocent,  dandyism  of  the  stu 
dent  :  his  large,  loving,  eyes  and  his  gentle  smile 

,     ^^^^ 

would  have  won  almost  any  heart. 

His  chief  characteristic  was  gentleness,  almost 
feminine  although  in  no  degree  effeminate ;  for  the 
moment  that  a  principle  came  in  question,  he 
grew  firm  as  the  sternest.  I  think  that  he  repaid 
all  my  love  for  him  with  interest  and  we  shared 
every  thought  in  common,  save  one.  I  had  told 
him  that  I  loved  Marie  and  he  had  answered 
with  rare  wisdom  that  while  he  desired  nothing 
so  much  as  to  see  his  sister  return  my  affection, 
yet  that  a  brother  was  the  last  man  to  choose  for 
a  confidant. 

"  If  I  were  your  confidant  Paul,"  he  would 
,  say,  "  I  should  be  obliged  to  hear  everything. 
But  every  affection  has  its  clouds ;  there  are  mis 
understandings,  lovers'  quarrels,  mistakes,  revul 
sions  of  feelings,  sentiments  altered  by  altering 
circumstances  in  which  I,  Marie's  brother  and 

your    friend,    wdfcld   not   know    which   side   to 

j  > 


"  V 


94  THE   BLOODSTONE. 

choose.  No  ;  dear-friend ;  bare  your  heart  to  no 
one  but  herself;  the  heart  of  a  husband  is  a 
shrine  consecrated  unto  God,  and  none  should  be 
its  minister  save  the  wife." 

Guided  by  this  philosophy,  our  friendship  in 
creased  from  day  to  day,  andwe  became  insepar 
able  at  the  University  gr  at  Andernach  when  va 
cation  gave  us  leisure  for  a  visit  there.  Of  course, 
we  had  other  intimate  acquaintances,  friends  in 
the  common,  and  not  unprofane,  use  of  the  word, 
who  formed  our  ordinary  associates.  Among 
them,  I  would  record  Casper  Hefferman.  He 
was  a  young  giant ;  at  least  six  feet,  two  inches 
in  height,  with  broad  shoulders  and  vast,  deep 
chest.  A  magnificent  black  beard  covered  the 
lower  part  of  his  face,  and  he  had  the  waving 
air  and  broad  snow-white  forehead  of  the  enthu 
siast.  His  voice  was  of  singular  melody,  deep, 
rich  and  sonorous  as  the  tones  of  an  organ ; 
and  his  dark,  expressive  eyes  illuminated  his 
whole  countenance. 

In  athletic  exercises,  he  had  no  rival ;  in  elo 
quence  of  speech  no  imitator.  I  have  never 
known  a  man  who  could  so  move  the  minds  of 
his  hearers  by  oratory.  His  gestures  were  slow 
and  dignified,  a  favorite  one  being  the  simultan 
eous  lifting  of  the  massive  arnfs ;  and  when  en- 


THEBLOODSTONE.  95 

tranced  by  the  glorious  music  of  his  voice,  you 
saw  those  strong  arms  rising  slowly,  it  seemed  as 
if  the  weight  of  mountains  could  not  have  kept 
them  down.  His  Demosthenic  power  of  denuci- 
ation  was  united  with  a  strength  of  scorn  that 
would  have  become  a  demon — his  sarcasm  was 
blighting.  His  great  lack  was  reverence.  The 
man  had  none.  Whatever  was  above  him,  served 
as  target  for  his  arrows.  Yet  his  generous,  youth 
ful  fire  hid  the  ugliness  of  this,  and  the  might  of 
his  earnestness  induced  imitation,  even  against 
conviction. 

What  his  eloquence  did  for  us,  is  important  in 
this  life-story  of  mine. 

At  the  period  of  which  I  write,  all  Germany 
was  convulsed  :  the  seeds  were  being  sown,  which 
afterwards  ripened  and  were  reaped  in  1848.  Se 
cret  societies  were  every  where  formed.  Some 
for  the  union  of  Germany  under  the  Austrian 
Emperor,  or  under  an  elective  Head,  or  under  the 
King  of  Prussia,  for  each  had  a  powerful  party. 
Some  for  a  grand  Teutonic  Eepublic.  Some  for 
an  universal  democracy  which  should  unite  all 
mankind  in  equal  brotherhood. 

In  the  Universities  a  sort  of  mania  for  these 
things  existed.  A  man  was  nothing  if  not  an 
adept  in  one  of  these  mysteries.  On  every  coat 


96  THE   BLOODSTONE. 

was  a  quaint  badge  ;  students  had  mystic  signs  of 
recognition.  You  would  see  fellows  from  Heidel 
berg  or  Gottiugen  or  Jena,  appear  as  strangers 
in  our  own  streets.  They  would  meet  a  party  of 
our  men,  and  raise  their  hand  or  fingers  in  some 
particular  way  ;  and  then  some  one  of  our  party 
would  dart  forward  and  fling  his  right  arm  round 
the  stranger's  neck,  and  kiss  him  on  both  cheeks  : 
then  go  through  the  same  manoeuvre  with  the  left 
arm,  finally  subsiding  into  tranquility  and  under 
going  the  like  accolade  in  turn  from  the  stranger. 
Every  University  had  its  mother  societies 
whereof  numberless  affiliations  covered  the  land. 
Franz  and  I  had  been  induced  to  join  one  of 
these  secret  orders,  more  because  it  was  the  fash 
ion  than  from  any  very  clearly  definite  motive, 
for  the  object  we  did  not  know.  Enough  that  we 
wore  over  the  heart,  a  small  Maltese  cross  of 
bloodstone,  and  were  mysteriously  known  as  the 
Nameless  :  we  had  our  peculiar  recognition  sign, 
and  our  chief  business  was  to  go  to  some  neigh 
boring  town  on  a  frolic,  or  to  listen  to  the  speak 
ing  of  Casper  Heffernan  and  others.  "We  had 
brethreri  at  Gottingen,  Jena,  Heidelberg,  Vienna, 
Freiburg,  etc.  and  the  Presidency  sat  alternately 
at  each  of  the  first  three  towns  and  at  Bonn. 

There  were,  we  knew,  solemn  conclaves  of  the  su- 

' 


r 

*.<™ 


. 

THE     BLOODSTONE.  97 

perior  members  called  from  time  t6  time,  but  for 
what  purpose  we  bt  rtojaot  neither  knew  nor 
cared 

For  us,  there  was  just  mystery  enough,  badge 
enough,  and  pleasant  reunion  enough,  to  add  a 
nfew  pleasure  to  our  store ;  so  Franz  and  I  were 
members  of  the  Nameless,  and  we  wore  the  Blood 
stone  beneath  our  vests. 

And  so  the  time  passed  on.  Bead  by  bead,  I 
told  the  chaplet  of  niy  years,  and  each  one 

brought  me  nearer  to  m\  <,ross. 

..-;•'" 

"'     *. 

4 

•**" '          •*•'• 

y^'^'-^Hii!- 


* 


x. 


LET  me  catch  up  the  thread  of  my  story. 
I  was  a  great  pedestrian  in  those  days  ;  and 
my  love  for  wild  scenery,  my  love  for  antique 
ruin,  weird  legend,  and  the  myths  of  poetry, 
found  abundant  exercise.  Knights  and  dragons, 
wood  fays  and  river-sprites,  Rubezahl  and  Lare- 
lie  still  dwell  on  the  shores  of  the  Rhine.  If  you 
cannot  see  them,  it  is  because  you  have  no  faith. 

But  I  have  seen  them  all  in  my  wanderings 
there.   I  have  tramped  along  the  dusty  road,  side 


MISUNDERSTANDINGS.          99 

by  side  with  some  Koman  eagle-bearer,  and  have 
seen  the  sullen  face  of  the  long-haired  German, 
peer  out  upon  us  from  the  covert  of  the  forest.  I 
have  seen  the  fierce  rats  swimming  over  the  swift 
current  to  devour  the  cruel  Bishop  Hatto ;  I  have 
heard  the  song  of  the  syren  from  her  whirlpool  at 
St.  Goar.  Rubezahl  has  played  me  many  a  trick 
in  the  dim  light  of  mountain  forests;  veiled  ladies 
and  mailed  warriors,  with  bright  eyed  Miunesan- 
gers  have  passed  me  in  beautiful  procession,  and 
I  have  gone  to  visit  the  ruins  that  others  leave  to 
crumble — and  I  have  builded  them  lovingly  up 
again — arched  the  high  roof  and  glazed  with 
tinted  panes  the  lancet  windows.,  . 

Then  I  set  sentinels  upon  the  battlements,  and 
placed  the  cavaliers  and  dames  upon  the  sward 
beneath  the  shade  of  vines,  circled  round  Walther 
von  der  Vogelweide  as  he  sang  his  Frauenlob, 
his  song  in  praise  of  Women,  or  in  the  hall,  to 
sheen  of  glittering  lights,  they  walked  the  stately 
minuet.  In  a  wrord,  I  put  back  the  world  clock 
some  four  centuries,  and  bade  it  linger  while  I 
dreamed. 

It  is  a  very  curious  fact,  and  worth  recording 
here,  that  in  every  cluster  of  those  olden  dames, 
gome  one  resembled  Marie. 

My  favorite  resort,  either  in  carriages  if  there 


100  THE    BLOODSTONE. 

were  ladies  of  the  party,  or  on  foot  with  Franz, 
and  sometimes  students  of  our  set,  and  sometimes 
quite  alone,  was  an  ancient  fortification  near 
Braunsberg.  You  walk  up  the  river  from  Ander- 
nach  to  Nette  Haus,  where  you  cross  in  the  ferry 
2>oat,  swung  over  by  the  force  of  the  current,  to 
Neuwied,  beloved  of  the  Moravian  brethren. 
From  this  town  you  strike  off  westward  to  Hed- 
desdorf,  where  the  riflemen  practice,  and  some 
times  kill  old  women  reaping  the  ripe  grain  ;  then 
northward  up  the  ascending  roads  through  the 
wild  hilU  and  gloomy  tannen  forests  to  the  Hei- 
dengraben,  or  Pagan's  grave — a  long, deep,  dark, 
ravine,  tangled  with  thorny  vines  and  stunted  ce 
dars,  and  rank  baleful  vegetation  ;  its  dim  invisi 
ble  abyss,  resonant  with  the  voice  of  torrents. 

This  ravine  ends  in  an  oval  valley  of  exceeding 
loveliness,  where  bright  streams  cross  each  other, 
and  over  which  the  sunlit  pines  upon  the  pleasant 
knolls  nod  greeting  to  each  other.  Upon  the 
highest  of  these  knolls,  backed  by  thick  ever 
green  foliage,  and  commanding  the  whole  sur 
rounding  country  for  at  least  half  a  mile,  except 
on  the  precipitous  northern  side,  stands  a  gigantic 
circular  ruin,  five  hundred  feet  in  circumference. 
The  masonry  is  Eoman — square  stones  and  firm, 
imperishable  cement;  but  there  are  the  ruins  of 


Ml  S  UNDERSTANDINGS.  101 

£ 

middle  age  battlements  upon  the  massive  walls. 
Though  vines  of  ivy  and  the  poisonous  mercury 
arid  delicate  qninquefoli'a  have  tapestried  the  in 
ner  walls,  and  the  court  is-  grass-grown,  arid  tall 
weeds  shoot  up  through  .the  pavement  stones,  you 
still  'see  the  traces  of  human  habitation. 

Huge  stones  and  bits  of  masonry  are  arranged 
in  the  form  of  seats  about  a  higher  presidential 
chair.  The  traces  of  fire  are  visible  at  one  end, 
and  as  you  sttr  the  earth  you  pick  up  flints  of 
ancient  pistols,  and  cross-bow  bolts  of  iron  rusted. 
Entire  arquebusses,  honeycombed  with  age,  and 
leathern  purses  with  coins  of  a  century  and  a 
half  ago,  have  been  found  here.  It  is  very  solemn 
to  be  here  alone,  when  the  day  is  lowering  and 
the  birds  cower  in  the  forest  afraid  to  sing;  and 
you  see  nothing  but  the  grim  walls  and  the  dark 
foliage  around  you  and  the  clouds  above — and 
the  raven  flaps  his  heavy  wings  sluggishly  above 
you,  and  the  eagle  screams  to  its  mate  upon  the 
beetling  cliffs  behind. 

I  had  a  strange  attraction  to  this  weird  place; 
and  yet  I  experienced  no  pleasure  in  it.  On  the 
contrary,  I  always  felt  a  vague  weight  upon  rny 
spirits — such,  [  supposed,  as  the  second -sigh  ted 
Seer,  the  Taishtear,  feels,  before  his  vision  of 
death  begins  to  open  upon  him.  What  Castle 


102  THE    BLOODSTONE., 

Bramsberg— for  so  men  catt  it  now — was  to  do 
for  me,  he  who  reads'. this  history  will  soon  earn. 

I  had  been  nearly  three  years  in  Germany. 
Another  course  of  four  months  and  I  would  quit 
the  University.  I  have  not  told  nor  will  I  tell 
the  story  of  my  love  making.  Not  that  it  s 
unimportant — for  what  is  human  life  without 
human  love  ! — bat  because  the  lesson  which  this 
book  is  intended  to  teach,  should  be  told  with 
simpleness,  and  not  made  to  linger  towards  its 
catastrophe,  like  a  drama  whose  end  is  only  to 
amuse  and  to  interest  by  its  adventurous  on 
going. 

I  have  said  that  I  soon  learned  to  love  Marie 
von  Bergen,  and  that  love  only  increased  as  I 
knew  more  of  her.  Without  any  heroic  qualities, 
except  that  heroism  of  patience  which  no  true 
woman  is  without,  she  possessed  the  usual  excel 
lences  of  her-  sex — gentleness,  affectionateness, 
devotedness,  admiration  of  noble  deeds  and  lofty 
aspirations,  refined  tastes  and  appreciations,  ear 
nest  religious  feeling,  and  faithfully  pious  prac 
tice.  She  .was  by  no  means  angelic,  but  very  far 
from  it.  Her  lips  could  curl  with  pride  or  scorn 
her  eyes  could  flash  or  fill  with  passionate  tears  • 
her  pretty  lips  could  utter  sentences  of  very  suf 
ficient  bitterness  or  sarcasm.  She  had  the  pro- 


Ml8UND£RSTAN   DINGS.  103 

foundest  contempt  for  logic  when  it  clashed  with 
an  affection  ;  and  in  ber  proudest  march  of  argu 
ment,  you  had  but  to  throw  one  tender  feeling  in 
the  way,  and  she  was  sure  to  tumble  over  it,  and 
to  rise  with  all  her  impressions  favorable  to  the 
other  side.  Her  accomplishments  were  the  usual 
ones  of  a  lady,  .except  music,  in  which  she  was 
more  than  an  ordinary  proficient. 

"What  she  had  of  beautiful  above  all  other  wo 
men  I  have  ever  known,  was  her  intense  domes 
ticity.  She  was  best  seen  at  home ;  and  let  her 
be  at  all  prominent  in  any  situation,  and  she  cre 
ated  a  home  atmosphere  at  once  around  her. 
This  homeness — pardon  the  word — was  her  pre 
eminent  characteristic,  and  with  its  power  to 
awaken  what  is  purest  and  to  repress  what  is 
worldly  and  base  in  man,  it  sanctified  her — I  say 
it  in  a  reverent  figure — it  set  her  apart  from  com 
mon  things,  and  surrounded  her  brow  as  with  a 
halo. 

I  had  never  yet  told  her,  in  words,  that  I  loved 
her — neither  had  I  made  any  attempt  to  conceal 
it,  and  I  had  every  reason  to  imagine  myself  at 
least  preferred. 

Matters  were  in  this  position  when  Franz  and 
I  went  back  to  Bonn,  I  to  conclude  my  studies 
there,  and  he  to  commence  his  in.Jurisorudence. 


104  THE  BLOODSTONE. 

It  was  during  the  winter  months  of  18 — ,  and 
the  University  town  was 'very  gay.  Strangers 
from  Vienna,  Berlin,  Dresden  and  even  Paris,  had 
been  drawn  there,  aad  we  had  a  merry  time  of 
it,  our  studies  being  merely  revisatory  and  not 
requiring  a  great  deal  of  labor. 

Among  the^many  whom  we  met  in  society  was 
a  French  lady,  a  Madame  Verneuil,  who  was  of 
especial  mark  among  us.  A  widow,  she  was  free, 
and  confessing  to  thirty,  she'  was  a  fine  woman. 
She  was  very  beautiful  after  the  Juno  style,  pos 
sessing  a  grand,  imposing  figure,  magnificent  in 
its  rounded  and  swaying  contours,  dark  hair  of 
abundant  richness,  and  grand,  well  educated  eyes. 
"Winning  as  she  was  physically,  she  was  old  enough 
not  to  rely  solely  upon  her  beauty,  but  she  dis 
played  all  the  charm  of  polished  life,  the  ease 
which  a  habit  of  cultivated  society  gives,  the 
happiest  manner  of  exhibiting  all  her  knowledge 
which  was  varied  and  graceful,  and  that  limit 
less,  shallow  good  nature  peculiar  to  the  Paris- 
ienne. 

She  declared  herself  possessed  by  a  fureur  for 
students  ;  took  an  apparently  deep  interest  in  all 
that  related  to  them,  was.  constantly  surrounded 
by  a  circle  of  young  men,  and  received  weekly 
more  bouquets  than  would  have  furnished  a  hot- 


MISUNDERSTANDINGS.         105 

*       (  -j*- 

house  and  .more  verses  than  would  be  required  to 
paper  the  walls  of  St.  Peter's. 

She  did  me  the  great  honor  of  selecting  me  as 
favorite  attendant.  I  was  flattered  •  by  her  pre 
ference,  as  what  young  man  would  not  be,  and  her 
fascinations  won  iny  admiration  and  secured  my 
attentions  without  touching  my  heart  I  thought 
of  her  as  I  think  now  of  Hawthorne's  Zenobia, 
pleased  with  her  beauty  and  attracted  by  her  in 
tellect,  but  without  the  alightest  desire  to  belong 
to  her  or  to  call  her  mine. 

Hovvbeit,  I  was  much  with  her,  at  the  concert, 
in  the  carriage ;  she  took  my  arm  for  the  prome 
nade,  made  room  for  me  beside  her  at  the  even 
ing  parties,  and  looked  for  my  hand  to  help  her 
out  of  boat  or  coach.  To  me  she  was  a  Venus 
or  Cleopatra,  from  the  pencil  of  Titian  if  you  like, 
to  be  looked  at  in  galleries  from  a  distance,  but 
the  sweet  Madonna  shrined  within  me  left  no  room 
in  the  heart  for  her.,  At  least  she  secured  what 
ever  services  she  desired  of  me,  my  time,  my  harp, 
and  my  compliments  were  always  at  her  disposal, 
'and  she  paid  me  by  the  pleasure  I  felt  in  her  so 
ciety.  Nay,  more,  as  I  happened  to  gain  a  prize 
for  some  verses  at  my  final  examination,  she  crown 
ed  me  solemnly  with  laurels  in  her  elegant  draw- 


* 

IP      .    .   "^     g^  . 

106  THE  BLOODSTONE. 

ing  rooms  and  for  the  rest  xxf  the  evening  we  were 
Torquato  and  Leonora.' 

But  no  sooner,  were  the  ofays  of  student  life 
ended  and  my  diplotipa  received  and  packed  up  in 
its  tin  case  out  of  sight,  lite  a  favorable  criticism 
in  an  obscure  review,  than  I  started  for  quiet  old 
Andernach.  Not  without,  its  reveries  was  this 
period-.  That  period  ^of  student  life  was  another 
shore  left  forever ;  my  boat  had  been  in  pleasant" 
seas;  rocked  by  no  dangerous  gales,  and  now  the 
moorings  were  cast  off  and  1  was  drifting  out 
upon  a  wide  and  unknown  ocean,  not  starless,  but 
yet  wide  and  all  un4mow.n.  Good  heaven!  those 
deeds  that  seemed  so  unimportant  in  my  careless 
student  existence,  might  they  not  one  day  frowu 
upon  me.  Alas,  one  deed  is  often  the  first  grain 
deposited  by  the  invisible  coral  worm,  the  nucleus 
of  a  merciless  reef  whereon  many  a  good  ship 
shall  perish. 

I  reached  home  just  as  supper  was  prepared, 
and  the  steam  of  the  coffee,  dear  to  the  German 
girls,  was  fragrant  in  the  hall.  I  found  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Eustace  entertaining  a  tall,  good  looking, 
young  Bavarian  soldier,  to  whom  I  was  present 
ed.  1  was  a  little  crossed  by  this  as  I  had  pro 
posed  to  sHp  quietly  out  after  tea,  and  run  over 
to  tell  Dr.  Hofftiitx  the  University  news.  But 


".£ 
MISUNDERSTANDINGS.          107 

there  was  no  help  for  it,  I  must  stay  and  talk  with 
llerr  Lieutenant  Am  Rhyn.  ^  ^^** 

When  the  evening  was  over  and  he  rose  to  take 
leave,  I  asked  if  he  vvas  going  to  Andernach. 

"  Oh  no,"  -he  said,  "  only  next  door,  I  am  stay 
ing  with  old  Hoffnitz." 

I  took  another  look  at  the  warrior  and  observ 
ed  that  his  shoulders  were  round  and  his  face 
too  full. and  healthful  looking  for  my  notion  of 
beauty. 

';  Oh,,  you  are  staying  at  the  doctor's  ?" 

"  Yes,  capital,  good  old  fellow  he  is  too.  And 
Mnrie,  dear  little  soul,  is  she  not,  such  eyes  and 
lips  !" 

"  Shall  I  pitch  into  this  fellow  ?"  said  I.  to  my 
self,  and  after  a  struggle  myself  said  "^N"o." 

"  (Jute  nacht,  meiu  lieber"  said  the  Bavarian, 
"  Good  night  my  dear  fellow,  corne  over  and  see 
me."  And  his  long  legs  got  in  motion  and  took 
him  away. 

"  Come  and  see  him  !  go  there  to  see  him  !  who 
the  deuce  is  he,  that  I  should  go  to  see  him. — 
The  impudent,  beer  drinking  Bavarian  ruffian." 

The  frame  of  mind  in  which  I  mounted  to  my 
room  was  positively  un-christian  and  superlatively 
anti -Bavarian.  But  a  moment's  reflection  sug 
gested.  "  Pooh,  pooh,  you  are  making  a  fuss 


.     .- 

108  T  H  E    B  L  O  O  D  S  T  O  N  E  . 

about  nothing,  some  cousin  or  something  of  the 
doctor's  ;  rather  a  super  cousinly  admiration  for 
Marie  he  appears  to  have,  however;  calls  her 
« little  Marie'  and  talks  of  her  eyes  anf'tips,  the 
confounded  camel.  -Never  mind,  we  shall  see"  in 
the  morning."  So  I  went  to  sleep. 

The  next  morning's  cool  meditation  informed 
me  that  I  was  quite  old  'enough  to  take  matters 
calmly,  and  that  I  should  treat  the  whole  affair 
with  dignity.  Marie  was  not  to  be  even  thought 
of  by  a  man  out  of  temper,  and  if  it  should  be 
come  necessary  to  slay  the  Bavarian,  that  could 
be  done  with  a  calm  politeness.  '  So  I  resolved 
to  go  'down  stairs  and  inform  Mr.  Eustace  of  my 
determination  to  demand  the  hand 'of  the  gnadiges 
Fraulein  von  Bergen. 

Much  to  my  surprise,  he  was  not  at  all  surpris 
ed  ;  his  wife,  he  said,  had  kept  him  quite  au  cou- 
rant  of  my  affections,  and  furthermore  he  not 
only  approved  of  early  marriages,  but  thought 
Marie  the  person  in  the  world  and  the  most  like 
ly  to  make  me  a  good  wife.  I  knew  that  my 
mother  would  be  satisfied,  for  I  had  written  to 
her  constantly  of  Marie,  and  she  had  given  me 
more  than  one  letter  of  advice,  delegating  in  the 
last  one,  her  parental  authority  to  Mr.  Eustace 
and  the  Doctor. 


MISUNDERSTANDINGS.         109 

Now  all  this  pleased  me* very  much,  and  I  ex 
pected  no  difficulties  on  the  part  of  the  worthy 
physician,  who  made  no  secret  of  his  liking  me. 
Like  all  dreamers  who  have  the  habit  of  writing 
down  their  dreams,  I  had  no  affection  for  the  ro- 
nurotic  in  real  life.  I  liked  the  course  of  true 
love  to  run  along  in  one  smooth,  unbroken  cur 
rent,  Mr.  Shakspere  to  the  contrary  notwith 
standing.  So,  after  breakfast,  full  of  coffee,  rolls 
and  hope,  I  set  out  for  my  interview  with  the  un 
cle  of  my  beloved  one.  "». 

I  found  him  in  his  study,  writing,  and  wished 
him  "  good  morning." 

"  Ah,  good  morning  Paul,"'  he  said  without 
looking  up.  This  conduct  appeared  to  me  at  va 
riance  with  the  importance  of  my  visit,  and  I  re- 

JB          ^  '-.^ 

marked  with  dignity 

"  I  wish  to  speak  to  you,  Dr.  Hoffnitz,  when 
you  have  leisure." 

He  turned  round,  laid  down  his  pen  and  point 
ed  to  a  seat  with  so  much  good  nature,  as  not 
only  to  upset  my  dignity  but  my  courage  along 
with  it,  and  a  sufficiently  long  silence  ensued. 

"  Well,"  said  the  doctor. 

"  Doctor,  I — I  have  just  come  from  Bonn'." 

"  I  know  it,"  he  answered,  opening  his  eyes, 
"I  saw  you  there  on  the  day  before  yesterday." 


110  THE   BLOOD  s  j  ONE. 

This  was  a  poor  beginning,  and  I  fidgetted  and 
waxed  red  and  brushed  my  Uair  back,  and  pulled 
my  gloves  off. 

"  Are  you  not  well,"  he  inquired,  (tyou  look 
feverish,  face  flushed,  motions  nervous,  slight 
wildness  in  the  eye,  put  out  your  tongue." 

"  Dr.  Hoffnitz,  I  am  perfectly  well,  I  have  no 

- 
— I,  am  in  love,  sir  !" 

The  fun  gleamed  up  through  the  liquid  blue  of 
his  eyes. 

"  Oh,  is  that  all  ?  I  began  to  fear  that  you  had 
the  jnfluenza;  Frau  Pumpernickle's  little  ones 
are -snuffling — suffering  I  should  say — terribly 

with  it. 

'  •'••        '••"«' 
"  Don't  quiz,  doctor,  .for  I  am  very  serious. — 

My  happiness  depends  upon  it." 

"  Oh,  of  course  it  does,  that  is  always  the  case 
in  affairs  of  this  sort.  But  don't  be  in  such  a 
hurry,  you  are  just  out  of  the  University.  Go 
travel  and  see  the  world  for  a  couple  of  years, 
arid  then  repose  yourself  for  a  couple  more,  think 
over  some  profession,  and  then  fall  in  Jove." 

"  But  sir,  I  am  now  twenty  two  years  old,  and 
she  is  nineteen." 

•   ,  *. 

"A  very  patriarchal  age,  I  admit." 
"  But    everybody   gets   married   at  that  age 
sir  ' 


MISUNDERSTANDINGS.         Ill 

"I  didn't.  Time  enough,  Paul.  Take  my  ad 
vice  and  travel;  and  I  will  give  you  a  mild  opiate 
to  take  to-night  on  going  to  bed.'' 

"  No  sir ;  it  is  impossible  ;  I  have  loved  her 
since  I  .first  saw  her,  and  were  I  to  lose  her  my 
heart  would  break." 

"  Heart !  humbug  !  What  has  the  heart  to  do 
with  it?  the  stomach  is  the  seat  of  the  affections. 
Np  man  can  get  on  with  a  disordered  stomach. 
Look  at  our  Germans.  You  won't  deny  that 
they  understand  love  making  better  than  any 
other  people,  and  they  eat  well,  drink  well,  and 
smoke  digestive  pipes.  Look  at  our  aesthetic 
teas"  where  all  matters  of  sentiment  are  settled. 
No  German  girl,  even  in  paroxysms  of  tender 
ness,  •  ever  forgot  her  coffee  at  eleven  o'clock. 
And  then  there's  the  case  of  Charlotte  and  Wer- 
ther,  (second  of  Gothe,  two  ninety  seven,)  as  long 
as  they  spread  and  ate  bread  and  butter  they  got 
along  famously ;  when  they  quit  that,  .their  sto 
machs  became  disordered  and  ..they  committed 
suicide.  Had  I  been  their  physician,  they  would 
have  done  nothing  of  the  kind.  One  grain  of 
quinine  taken  every  morning,  fasting,  would  have 
rectified  all  that,  A  lover  never  whines  until  he 
loses  his  appetite.  Keep  the  stomach  right  and 


112  THE    BLOODSTONE. 

the  heart  wont  break,  be  sure.    There,  what  have 
you  got  to  say  against  that  ?" 

"Nothing,  only  that  I  love  Marie  too  dear- 

"  Love  whom  ?" 

"  Marie." 

"  What !  my  Marie  ?  Marie  von  Bergen  ?" 

"Yes  sir." 

"  Whew  !  Noto  the  wheel  is  in  the  mire.  What 
a  chuckle-headed  old  fool,  what  a  dummkopf  I 
am  !  Here,  for  three  years,  have  I  left  you  and 
her  constantly  together  as  though  you  had  been 
but  five  years  old.  Why,  Paul,  rny  dear  boy,  I 
intended  her  for  A™  Rhyn," 

"  What,"  I  exclaimed  explosively,  "  give  Maria 
to  that  stupid  long-legged — " 

"  His  legs  are  long,"  admitted  the  doctor. 

"A  great  Bavarian  beer-swilling  preposterous 
giraffe  !" 

"  Stop,  Paul,  you  are  confusing  metaphors. 
There  are  no  giraffes  in  Bavaria ;  neither  is  it  the 
custom  of  that  tall  quadruped  to  quench  his 
thirst  with  malt  liquors." 

I  could  not  help  laughing,  and  the  'doctor  con 
tinued — 

"  Do  not  be  so  unnecessarily  violent.     There  is 


MISUNDERSTANDINGS.       113 


no  promise,  and  besides,  1  like  you  better  than 
him.  But  your  mother  !" 

"  She  has  known  Marie  for  a  long  time,  as 
well  as  letter  could  describe  her  ;  and  only  re 
quires  of  me  that  I  do  nothing  without  your  con 
sent  and  advice,  as  well  as  that  of  M_r.  Eustace." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know—  I—  if  I  thought—  ach, 
du  guter  Himmel,  I  know  nothing  of  these  things. 
I  will  let  Marie  decide  for  herself." 

I  had  seen  Marie  in  the  conservatory,  and  at 
her  side  was  the  Bavarian  giraffe.  So  when  the 
Doctor  agreed  to  leave  all  te  her,  I  left  the  stu 
dy  and  went  out.  When  I  opened  the  door  lead 
ing  to  the  g;irden,  the  twain  were  examining  a 
magnificent  flower  covered  rose-bush  ;  1  saw  her 
pick  one  and  give  it  to  the  giraffe,  which  kissed 
it  and  put  it  into  its  bosom,  confound  it.  Then 
she  turned,  and  as  she  saw  me,  her  face  became 
crimson,  and  then  pale.  She  said  something  to 
the  giraffe,  and  walked  rapidly  towards  me.  I, 
hat  in  hand,  stepped  down  within  the  hot  house, 
and  smiled  a  greeting.  Sh«  fixed  her  brown 
eyes  full  upon  mine,  as  -she  came  near  me,  and 
without  bending  her  head,  said  with  great  dis 
tinction  — 

"  Good  morning  Herr  Oalvert,"  and  so  passed 


114  P  H  E    BLOODSTONE. 

by  me  into  the  house.  The  giraffe  nodded  to  me 
condescendingly,  and  gave  Marie  his  hand  to 
mount  the  steps. 

Moi,  je  fus  plante  la. 

. ..  ,"          '•'.%*  ."»•-  .  !  •-  :-•  •   - 


',* 


XI. 


IT  took  me  some  time  to'  recover  from  the 
shock  of  Marie's  greeting,  and  when  I  asked 
myself  the  reason,  I  was  forced  to  adopt  one  of 
three.  Either  she  preferred  the  giraffe,  or  she 
had  some  motive,  thought  good  by  herself,  for 
withdrawing  her  regard  from  me.  But  if  she 
liked  the  lieutenant  better,  such  insulting  coldness 
to  me  was  still  unnecessary;  she  could  have 
shown  her  regard  for  him  without  outraging  me. 
I  could  find  no  excuse  for  her  in  any  act  or  Word 


T 


116  THE   BLOODSTONE. 

of  mine,  so  I  concluded  that  she  was  a  coquette, 
aware  of  my  affection  for  her  and  desirous  of  ex 
hibiting  her  power  over  me  in  the  eyes  of  the 
giraffe. 

But  when  that  respectable  quadruped  took  up 
his  line  of  march  for  Bavaria,  a  couple  of  weeks 
afterward,  and  I  learned  from  the  doctor  that 
Marie  had  refused  to  become  Frau  Lieutenant  Am 
Khyn,  geborene.von  Borgen,  and  her  manner  to 
me  continued  of  unabated  coldness,  then  I  con 
cluded  that  there  was  no  coquetry,  but  that  there 
was  that  thing  of  universal  application,  that  un 
fortunate,  lucky,  mournful,  consolatory  thing — a 
misunderstanding.  At"  which  cocrclusion  being 
safely  arrived,  I  determined  to  probe  it  to  the 
bottom — which  also  is  a  confusion  of  metaphors. 
Meantime  nearly  a  month  slipped  by,  during  which 
I  had  endeavored  to  outvie  my  bearitiful  enemy. 
I  showed  no  coldness;  that  would  have  confessed 
love  on  my  part.  My  affectation  was  polite  in 
difference.  I  flattered  her,  something  that  I  had 
never  done  before.  If  she  sang,  I  poured  forth 
a  profusion  of  compliments ;  if  she  drew,  I  called 
her  Angelica  Kaufman;  if  she  danced,  I  com 
pared  her  to  La  Taglioni :  in  short,  I  was  exces 
sively  impertinent;  and  it  would  have  required  a 


CLEARED!!?.  117 

very  sharp  eye,  to' see  that  all  the  while  my  very 
heart  was  yearning  to  tell  her  how. I  loved  her. 

She  saw  nothing  of  the  kind,  and  through  her 
coldness  occasional  anger  flashed  as  flash  the 
Northern  lights  through  the  cold  haze  of  Decem 
ber.  And  then  the  time  came  that  I  could  play 
my  part  no  longer,  and  I  said  that  I  would  have 
an  explanation  at  the  first  opportunity — and  I 
did. 

* '      '     T  ; 

It  was  a  magnificent  night  in  the  late  winter, 
towards  the  end  of  February.,  The  snows  lay 
white  and  still  in-  the  desolate-  garden,,  over  the 
wide  unshadowed  iawn.  The  'cold  naked  trees 
stuck  out  their  hard  branches  in  the  cheerless  air, 
and  at  every  blast  the  gems  of  ic*e  fell  rattling 
from  their  coats,  as  the  pearls  fell  from  Bucking 
ham's  doublet  at  the  levee  of  Louis  XIII.  The 
clear  blue  winter  skies  were  full  of  stars  ;  and  as 
the  branches  swayed  hither  and  thither  between 
their  light  and  earth,  weird  shadows  moved 
writhingly  over  the  snow.  ^ 

Within,  a  genial  heat  from  the  huge  porcelain 
stove  pervaded  th«  room,  and  the  wax  lights 
burned  cheerfully  upon  the  book  laden  tables. 
The  doctor  was  at  work  in  his  studyt  Marie  was 
alone  in  the  drawing  room,  and  I  was  in  the  cool 
hall  standing  at  the  door.  The  more  I  had  con- 


118  THE    BLOODSTONE. 

cealed,  the  more,  of  course,  I  had  suffered.  If  I 
were  entirely  wrong  in  attributing  any  kind  feel 
ings  for  me  to  Matfe,  the  sooner  I  learned  the 
truth  the  better.  So  I  took  off  ray  irresolution 
and  my  hat,  and  opened  the  door. 

She  was  standing  at  the  window  when  I  en 
tered,  but  when  she  turned  round  and-  saw  me, 
she  bowed  and  took  a  seat  near  the  table.  After 
a  sufficient  silence,  which  gave  no  promise  of  be 
ing  broken'  upon  her  eide,  I  ventured  to  remark 
that  it  was  a  beautiful  night,  -an  observation  to 
which  she  at  once  assented.  And  then  I  waxed 
straightway  wroth. 

"  FrauTehi,"  I  said,  "  I  have  come  to  visit  you 
to-night  at  the  risk  of  being  unwelcome  and  disa 
greeable." 

Fraulein  von  Bergen  opined  that  the  friend 
of  her  brother  and  her  uncle  had  certain  rights 
in  the  house,  unquestionably  in  the  drawing  room, 
to  which  all  were  admitted.  Which  opinion  in 
no  wise  .sweetened  my  disposition. 

"  I  have  observed,  "Fraulein,  the  exceeding  and 
not  flattering  change  in  your  mariner  towards  me 
since  my  return  from  the  university,  and  I  had  at 
first  attributed  itr  to  an  affection  for  your  new 
Bavarian  friend." 

"  I  do  not  know,"  she  replied,  u  that  I  have  a 


CLEARED!!?.  119 

right  to  interest  myself  in  your  observations  and 
inferences.  You  seem  to  have  assumed  the  right 
of  watching  me." 

Then  I  exploded.  u  Yes,  I  have  assumed  that 
right,  for  I  feel  that  it  is  one.  I  do  not  know  the 
reason  of  your 'conduct,  I  only  know  that  it  is 
groundless,  I  know  that  I  left  you  my  kind  and 
amiable  friend,  and  that  I  returned  to  be  met  by 
an  insulting  greeting  and  by  a  cold  contempt  ever 
since.  Yes,  I  have  watched  you,  and  -I  have  seen 
your  cold,  beautiful  eyes  watching  me,  full  of 
scorn,  when  they  should  have  been  full  of  a  wide 
ly  different  expression." 

"  You  are  wrong,"  she  said  gently.  "  I  have 
never  felt  scorn  for  you." 

"  You  would  have  grossly  erred,  had  you  done 
so,  I  am  not  made  for  anybody's  scorn  ;  least  of 
all  for  a  woman's,  least  of  all  women's  for  yours." 

Again  she  raised  her  eyes,  and  their  floods  of 
light  were  poured  full  upon  mine,  and  a  crimson 
blush  covered  her  face,  but  she  made  no  answer, 
and  I  continued. 

"  Men  of  my  way  of  thinking  attribute  to  wo 
men  a  power  of  divination.  We  believe  that  they 
can  see  affection  even  where  it  is  well  concealed, 
that  they  can  distinguish  an  ardent,  loving  nature 
under  any  veil,  and 'we  believe  that  there  is  gen? 


120  THE    BLOODSTONE. 

tleness  enough  in  the  feminine  nature  at  least,  not 
to  make  sport  of  it.  But  I  have  done  wrong  in 
so  thinking." 

My  heart  was  b'eating  thickly  and  my  voice 
faltered  as  I  spoke.  "  "Would  to  God,  that  you 
had  not  been  appointed  to  teach  me  how  much  1 
erred."  I  turned  to  leave  her,  adding, 

"  But  you  .have  taught  me  that  you  are  not  the 
divine  creatures, which  poets  feign  you  ;  and  that 
even  the  gentlest  extenornnay  hide  a  callous  and 
crueV  disposition,  unworthy  of  the  loving  honor 
which  I  once  felt,  and  only  deserving  the  bitter 
ness  of  contempt  that  I  now  feel.  I  have  the 
honor,  Fraulein  Yon  Bergen,  to  wish  you  good 
night,"  and  I  bowed. 

"  Dou't  go,"  she  said. 

My  reply  was  another  bow,  as  I  waited  with 
ostentatious  and  rather  insolent  politeness.  But 
as  she  did  not.iijuuediately  speak,  I  moved  again. 

"  Stay,  sir,"  she  said  angrily,  and  with  an  im 
perious  gesture. 

I  turned  obediently  with  a  sneer  upon  my  lip. 
She  saw  it  and  burst  into  a  passion  of  tears. 

"  Do  you  think  then  that  I  am  so  ignorajat  of 
you  men  who  live  in  the  world  ?"  she  cried,  "  your 
way  of  treating  women  or  of  shewing  yourselves 


C  I,  E  A  R   E  D      U  P.  121 

to  be  not  the  wrongers  but  the  wronged  !     You 
are  a  coward  sir,  to  treat  me  so  !" 

It  was  the  first  time  that  that  name  had  ever 
been  applied  to  me,  and  woman  though  she  was 
who  spoke,  I  could  not  restrain  the  flush  and  look 
of  rage  which  it  aroused. 

"  You  know"  she  continued,  <(  that  what  you 
have  said  is  untrue.  You  know  that  you  have 
sought  me  here,  a  simple  German  girl,  whose  life 
has  only  known  the  convent  and  this  quiet  coun 
try  seat,  and  striven  to  win  my  love  for  the  mere 
vanity  of  casting  it  away ;  while  you  bestow  your 
own,  if  you  have  any,  on  some  grand  Parisian 
lady." 

Jealous  of  Madame  Verneuil  and  loving  me. — 
It  was  almost  too  much  for  belief. 

"  Marie  !"  I  said. 

"  Yes,  I  was  not  blind  to  your  wooing.  .  And 
I  am  not  blind  to  the  wretched  vanity  that  alone 
induced  it.  Now,  I  can  scorn  you — but  I  think 
my  heart  will  break." 

I  made  one  bound  to  her  side  and  caught  her 
in  my  arms. 

"  Mtfirie,  I  love  the  very  ground  you  tread  up 
on." 

"  Let  me  go,  sir,"  she  said,  and  strove  to  re 
lease  herself.  But  a  giant  could  not  have  broken 

11 


122  THE    BLOODSTONE. 

that  embrace.  I  put  her  hands  aside,  I  gathered 
her  up  into  my  arms,  close,  close  into  my  bosom  ; 
and  I  rained  my  ardent  kisses  on  her  lips  and 
forehead  and  eyes  and  murmured  pet  names  as 
J  held  her  there. 

And  so  without  further  explanation,  each  knew 
that  the  other  loved  and  was  beloved:  and  Marie's 
tears  fell  more  gently,  and  when  at  last,  she  look 
ed  up  smiling,  I  released  her  with  one  1'ong  kiss 
upon  the  forehead. 

"  And  that  French  woman  ?  that  Madame 
Verneuil  ?" 

"  Hush,  darling,  and  I  will  tell  you  all  about 
it,' 


XII. 

Initial  J0tt. 


BUT  I  must  hurry  on  with  my  story.  Hither 
to  it  has  been  pleasant  walking  through  gar 
dens,  and  the  long  grasses  and  wild  flowers  of 
sunny  meadows.  But  the  dark  over-shadowed 
bye-paths  are  at  hand,  where  the  rank  vegetation 
breathes  acrid  odors,  and  where  little  light  can 
penetrate  and  where  the  air  is  chill.  Few  men 
walk  otherwise  than  thus,  be  the  road  long  or 
short  that  leads  from  Eternity  to  Eternity,  from  •/ 


124  THE    BLOODSTONE. 

the  door  of  birth,  where  we  enter  Time,  to  the 
portal  of  Death,  where  we  quit  it. 

I  am  a  great  advocate  for  early  marriages. 
There  is  no  check  like  matrimony  for  the  errant 
propensities  of  young  manhood.  Few  live  to 
what  are  called  the  years  of  discretion  without 
losing  one  if  not  both  parents  :  sisters  wed  and 
get  new  households  of  their  own,  and  the  first 
home  is  lost.  Then  usually  comes  to  the  young 
man  the  choice  between  the  devil  and  the  angel. 
If  he  prefer  the  latter  he  will  generally  find  her 
in  the  guise  of  a  gentle  wife.  I  believe  half  the 
worthlessness,  idleness  and  uneuergy  of  batchelor- 
ism  are  products  of  interference  and  prevention 
of  early  marriages.  An  early  marriage  is  not  ne 
cessarily  an  imprudent  one  any  more  than  the 
grey-beard's  last  wedlock  is  a  wise  one.  The  di 
vine  instincts  of  youth  will  guide  us  more  cor 
rectly  in  the  choice  of  a  companion  than  our 
world-wisdom,  what  we,  in  our  corruption,  call 
our  maturer  judgments.  Neither  are  parental 
and  guardian  terrors  always  well  founded.  A 
young  man  is  objected  to  because  he  is  poor;  be 
cause  he  is  quick,  careless  of  opinion,  inclined  to 
defy  harsh  judgment — a  disposition  which  pru 
dent  old  ladies  call  "  recklessness,"  and  which  is 
as  natural  to  generous  youth,  as  scandal  is  to 


INITIATION.  125 

- 

'prudent  old  ladies.  A  young  man  without  posi 
tive  fixed  vices,  who  has  these  three  qualities, 
generosity  6f  feeling,  affectionateness  and  honor, 
may  be  safely  trusted  with  the  welfare  of  the  wo 
man  whom  he  loves ;  my  word  for  it,  he  will  se 
cure  it  more  certainly  than  he  who  buys  a  wife 
for  two  carriage  horses,  a  sofa  at  the  Opera,  and 
an  entrance  into  Mrs.  Fungus' "set. 

Marie  !  never,  never  for  a  moment  have  I  for 
gotten  what  I  swore  to  thee,  when  I  held  the 
ring  on  thy  finger— rthat  finger  whence  a  vein  runs 
directly  to  the  heart — and  when  the  white- vested 
priest  bade  me  promise  to  devote  my  life  to  thee, 
and  to  hold  thee,  not  as  a  stranger  but  as  a  por 
tion  of  myself.  That  old,  saintly  priest — an  an 
cient,  almost  worn-out  laborer  in  the  garden  of 
God,  who  had  tilled  the  soil  of  human  souls  so 
long,  and  who  was  soon  to  go  home  unto  his 
Master,  with  a  bosom  full  of  golden  sheaves — 
who  had  transplanted  thy  heart  into  my  heart  till 
the  roots  of  both  were  mingled — what  he  said, 
Marie  darling,  have  I  never  forgotten ;  and  when 
one  day,  I  shall  stand  before  our  Lord  for  judg 
ment,  and  He  asketh  what  were  my  virtues,  of 
one  only  will  I  dare  to  boast,  saying,  "  Lord,  I 
have  loved  the  help-meet  that  Thou  gavest  me." 
We  were  married  ;  Marie  slept  upon  my  bo- 


126  THE   BLOODSTONE. 

sotn.  She  was  mine  angel  of  the  night,  whose 
sweet  voice  lulled  me  into  Dreamland — she  was 
mine  angel  of  the  morning,  whose  sweet  voice 
called  me  back  to  life.  And  the  year  glided  on. 
Often  as  I  wrote,  she  would  sit  on  a  low  cushion 
at  my  feet,  with  her  brown  head  lying  on  my 
knee,  and  my  left -hand  drawn  by  hers  closely 
round  her  neck,  for  hours.  Or  she  would  learn 
what  songs  I  wrote,  and  would  sing  them  to  the 
piano,  touching  one  or  two  chords,  without  any 
attempt  at  composition,  but  finding  out  by  in 
stinct  at -the  moment  what  sounds  best  harmoniz 
ed  with  the  words. 

Her  cheerfulness  was  of  that  gentle  sort  which 
wears  well — yet  she  could  be  merry,  and  as  great 
a  tease  as  ever  lived.  I  thank  God  that  for  the 
first  year,  her  weeping  was  but  little,  and  that 
little  not  for  her  own  sorrows.  We  remained 
with  the  Doctor,  who  had  also  an  office  in  town. 
He  had  no  need,  pecuniarily,  to  practice — but, 
as  he  said  himself,  if  he  did  not  attend  to  the 
poor  people,  they  would  get  some  vile  quack  ; 
and,  if  they  must  be  killed  with  medicine,  why — 
it  was  the  privilege  of  the  regular  practitioner  to 
kill  them. 

Franz  Was  studying  jurisprudence  at  Bonn, 
and  came  home  only  once  a  month,  and  I  had 


. 

-'  * 

INITIATION.  127 

twice   been    down   to   attend   a  meeting  of  the 
Nameless. 

And  then  at  the  end  of  the  year,  there  oame 
the  greatest  baby  ever  revealed  to  mankind,  with 
the  roundest  and  openest  eyes,  and  the  most  hair 
on  its  head  of  any  neoligos  upon  record.  View 
ed  merely  as  a  baby  to  poke  your  firtger  at  in  or 
der  to  make  it  crow,  that  baby  was  unsurpassed, 
its  manner  of  nestling  its  head  in  the  maternal 
bosom,  and  its  powers  of  looking  cautiously'over 
one  shoulder  and  ducking  suddenty  back  again 
were  positively  sublime.  Then  the  child's  super 
natural  intelligence !  It  actually  knew,  as  its 
mother  asseverated,  when  it  was  hungry.  Lbe- 
came  alarmed  and  bought  it  a  skipping  rope,  a 
hoop  and  three  different  descriptions  of  go  carts, 
when  it  was  but  three  weeks  old,  lest  its  intellec 
tual  development  should  prove  too  rapid  for  its 
physical  health. 

And  the  picture  of  the  young  mother  bending 
over  her  child,  lost  to  all  sense  of  surrounding  ex 
istence,  and  living  only  in  the  life  of  the  little  be 
ing  upon  her  lap  !  I  know  but  one  picture  like 
it,  and  we  all  know  that.  It  is  the  Sacred  Moth 
er  who  looks  with  her  sweet,  mournful  eyes  down  ' 
upon  her  Divine  Child,  watching  the  forehead 


128  THE    BLOODSTONE. 

where  day  by  day  darkens  the  shadow  of  the 
Cross. 

Necessary  concomitants  of  babies  are  babies' 
maids,  in  accordance  with  which  necessary  con- 
cornitancy,  we  received  into  the  bosom  of  our 
family  the  person  of  Miss  Gertrude  Krautkopf. — 
She  called  herself  Trudchen,  which  means  'little 
Gertrude,'  and  merited  that  name  by  the  fact  that 
she  measured  at  least  four  feet  from  omoplate  to 
omoplate.  She  wag  a  square  girl -'of  irreproach 
able  morals;  her  acce*nt  and  her  person  were 
broad ;  she  had  blue  eyes,  and  was  first  cousin  to 
a  tanner  well  to  do  in  the  wdrld ;  she  wore  short 
clothes,  relative  6f  grey,  worsted  ancles-,  and  had 
a  lover  whom  she  spoke  of  as  '  my  blessed  Peter. ' 
At  the  end  qf  the  first  month,  when,  in  paying 
her  .wages,  I  threw  in  an  additional  thaler,  she' 
called  me  a  "  beautiful  babe,"  and  expressed  her 
conviction  that  I  was  related  to  the  angel  who 
should  overthrow.Antiehris-t.  She  was  decidedly 
the  unhandiest  maiden  I  have  ever  known,  and 
never  did  anything  right  except  what  referred  to 
the  baby.  She  one  day  broke  into  the  study  and 
cleaned  all  the  object  glasses  of  the  doctor's  mi 
croscope,  they  were  covered,  she  said,  with  the 
wings  and  legs  of  nasty  flies  and  things.  She  put 
my  papers  to  rights  and  took  away  my  lueifer 


. 

INITIATION.  129 

matches  for  fear  that  I  would  set  fire  to  myself 
in  the  night. 

But  Marie  suffered  worst  of  all.  She,  poor  child, 
was  flouted  and  corrected  .at  every  moment. 
Trudchen  seemed  to  fancy  her  only  another  child 
over  whom  she  had  supreme  authority,  and  once 
when  Marie  got  into  a  passion,  threatened  to  put 
her  to  bed  and  to  c,all  me.  Every  week  she  was 
threatened  -with  ignominious  expulsion,  but  she 
defied  it  courageously.  "  Only  say  the  word," 
she  declared  "  and  she  was'  ready  ;  she  would 
take  her  baby  and  the  poor  little  mother  of  it  and 
go.  It  was  no  place  for  them  anyway.  Thank 
heaven,  she  had  a  home  of  her  own,  and  a  cousin, 
the  first  tanner  -in  Eberfeldt ;  aud  if  the  worst 
came  to  the  worst,  she  would  , marry  her  '  bless  • 
ed  Peter'  and  the  children  should  find  a  home 
there. 

Poor,  honest,  unhandy,  imperious,  Trudchen. 
One  Christmas  she  gave  rne  a  bright,  green  cot 
ton  cravat,  and  on  my  birthday  a  toothbrush. — 
'  Gentlefolks  liked  those  French  things,'  she  said, 
'  and  she  supposed  they  must  have  their  own 
way.-  This  brush  was  the  softest  she  could  find, 
she  had  tried  it  herself  and  it  did  not  scratch  her 
gums  much.' 

And   now  Trudchen,   thou   and  thy   blessed 


130  THE   BLOODSTONE. 

Peter,  keep  the  very  <Juest-house  wherein  I 
am,  now  writing.  Good  Trudchen !  Blessed 
Peter ! 

Well,  it  was  about  two  years  since  I  had  quit 
ted  the  University,  when  I  received  a  letter  from 
my  brother  in  law,  calling  me  to  a  grand  student 
reunion,  to  take  place  at  Bonn.  I  went  down 
and  found  the  city  full  of  Burschen  in  fanciful 
coats  and  quaint  caps,  with  here  and  there  among 
them,  one  or  two  young  married  men  like  myself 
in  ordinary  civilian's  dress.  We  had  numberless 
meetings  and  merry  makings,  and  the  antique 
streets  sounded  with  joyous  chorusses  for  a  week. 
On  Friday,  the  fifth  day  after  our  assemblage, 
Franz  notified  me  of  a  special  conimers,  or  frolic 
to  be  held  at  Gottesberg,  a  few  miles  up  the  river 
and  eai'ly  in  the  morning  we  crossed  the  Rhine 
and  walked  in  procession  to  that  village. 

The  day  was  passed  in  visiting  the  curiosities 
of  the  place,  the  camp  of  Julian  the  Apostate, 
the  ruins  of  an  ancient  temple  of  Mercury,  and 
the  chapel,  famous  for  its  sanctity.  Here  in  old 
times  was  held  the  Goding  or  Gottesgericht,  an 
ancient'  secret  tribunal,  arrogating  to  itself  the 
title  of  Gods-court — and  full  of  yet  hidden  signi 
ficance  for  the  young  students  now  gathered  up 
on  the  heigh  s  there. 


INITIATION.  131 

So  the  glud  sun,  when  his  course  had  run,  went 
down  amid  the  empurpledwestern  clouds,  and  as 
the  twilight  still  lingered,  we'entered  one  by  one 
a  hirge  dining  hall  and  sa£e  down  around  the 
long  table.  There  \Vere  perhaps  fifty  of  us. — 
The  table,  was  covered  with  all  that  wag-' needed 
for  a  solid  supper,  roe-venison  and  succulent  wild 
boar  ham,  trout  from  the  neighboring  brook  and 
pickerel  from  the  Rhine. 

When  these  had  disappeared-  the  long  pipes 
came,  and  conversation  waxed  animated. — 
Through  the  soft  clouds  that  rose  from  bowls  of 
porcelain  and  meerohaum  loomed  the  quaint  beer 
glass  or  the  long  necked  flask  of  -Rhine  or  Neck- 
ar  wine.  Red  blushed  the  juice  of  Asinanhau- 
sen's  grape,  and  the  golden  "light  oi!  the  Rudes- 
heimer  or  the  Braunerberger  streamed  fluid  into 
the  green  glasses. 

Then  as  the  brain  began  to  warm  with  wine, 
rich  manly  voices  sang  the  noble  student-songs 
of  Germany,  and  speeches  were  made,  and  loud 
applauses  sounded.  It  was  about  ten  o'clock 
when  Caspar  Hefferman  rose  to  speak.  As  he 
did  so,  the  sword-bearers  opened  the  doors, 
looked  out  into  the  hall,  and  then  seeing  the  pas 
sages  empty,  closed  the  portals  and  stood  beside 
them,  holding  their  drawn  rapiers  in  their  hands. 
.  •  '  • 


132  THE  BLOODS  TONE. 

Heffernan  now  made  the  sign  by  which  th'e  mem 
bers  of  the  Nameless  recognized  each  other,  and 
to  my  surprise  it  was  answered  by  ail  the  guests. 
At  another  sign,  we  each  drew  forward  and  ex 
hibited  upon  our  necks  the  Bloodstone  Cross. 

Then  Heflfernan  spoke,  quickly  warming  into  a 
strain  of  great  exultation  as  he  proceeded  and 
carrying  all  away  by  the  witchery  of  his  eloquence. 
He  spoke  of  oppressors  and  of  oppressed,  of  hu 
man  dignity  and  the  rights  of  mankind)  of  mor 
tal  law  making  and  immortal  Justice,  of  wails 
that  mounted  hourly  up  to  Heaven  and  of  bitter 
retribution  to  come.  Yet,  all  this  was  vague  and 
dreamy  and  .indefinite.  "What  the  man  meant 
was  in  his  own  soul.  We  were  satisfied  to  be 
made  drunken  by  his  peerless  eloquence.  Our 
lips  curled  when  he  uttered  his  fierce  sarcasms, 
our  indignation  kindled  at  his  pictures  of  suffer 
ing,  our  blood  fired  as  we  listened  to  his  Demos 
thenic  denunciation.  It  was  not  at  all  clear  who 
were  the  wronged  and  who  the  wrongers,  who 
should  reap  punishment  and  who  be  lifted  out  of 
wretchedness.  "We  only  quaffed  his  intoxicating 
eloquence  as  one  one  would  quaff  wine. 

At  last  he  turned  to  us, .  his  brothers,  the  chil 
dren  of  the  Nameless,  and  drew  a  picture  of  hero 
ic  deeds  £0  be  done  one  day  by  us,  so  vivid  that 


INITIATION.  133 

we  seemed  even  then  to  hear  the  blessings  of  re 
deemed  mankind  uttered  upon  us.  But  many  of 
us  had  taken  but  the  first  step,  the  orator  said, 
we  were  lingering  before  the  veil  of  the  Isis,  but 
to-night  if  we  were  ready,  aye  npw>  this  hour ; 
this  moment,  the  veil  should  be  withdrawn. 

We  hailed  the  proposal  with  a  shout,  warmed 
with  good  wine  and  fired  by  his  oratory  we  would 
have  done  anything. 

At  a  given  signal  we  passed  one  by  one  into  a 
small  side  room.  '  There  was  erected  a  kind  of 
altar,  and  there  such  of  us  as  were  not  already 
all  initiated  swore,  by  what  to  him  was  holiest,  to 
carry  out  the  behests  of  the  Society  at  any  risk  ; 
never  to  reveal  any  of  its  acts  or  purposes,  and  to 
be  faithful  in  all  things  to  its  laws  and  the  com 
mands  of  its  great  council,  who,  twenty-five  in 
number,  met  at  Heidelberg. 

Never  a  very  practical  person,  I  had  now  lost 
what  common  .sense  I  ever  had  ;  I  was  possessed 
by  a  sort  of  delirium,  my  excitement  was  greater 
because  it  was  vague,  and  in  this  condition  I  en 
tered  the  room,  took  the  dread  oath  and  came 
forth  again.  So  was  it  too  with  Frauz,  but  his 
mood  changed  so  soon  as  we  had  broken  up  our 
meeting  and  were  on  our  way  home. 

"  Paul,"  he  said,  "  we  have  done  very  wrong  in 
12 


, 
134  THE    BLOOD-STONE. 

taking  the  oath  last  night,  and  I  shudder  now 
when  I  think  of  it,  and  of  what  consequences  may 
ensue  from  it." 

"  Oh,  pooh,  we  are  but  a  knot  of  young  fellows 
without  any  very  terrible  purposes  and  do  not  run 
much  danger  of  doing  wrong." 

"  You  speajt  more  lightly  than  you  think,  my 
brother,"  he  said.  "  Do  you  recall  that  dark  sat 
urnine  man  who  sate  at  Heffernan's  right  hand. — 
That  sallow  face,  and  wavy  damp  black  hair,  and 
those  distant  looking,  immense  black  eyes  show 
the  fanatic  who  can  conceive,  any  scheme,  and 
who  would  recoil  at  nothing.  Heffernan  also,  is 
an  enthusiast,  with  coolness  enough. to  keep  his 
purposes  veiled,  but  with  resolute  fanaticism 
enough  to  follow  them  however  wild  they  may 
be.  Paul,  I  have  sinned  in  taking  that  .oath. 
What,  what  will  be  the  result  of  that  one  hasty 
deed !" 

I  could  not  help  being  affected  by  his  earnest 
ness  as  I  answered, 

"  Yes,  it  was  hasty.  But  the  oath  was  takxin 
and  it  must  be  kept." 

Franz  looked  directly  into  my  eyes  as  he  said, 

"Paul,  we  •have  grievously  erred,  we  have  cast 
aside  Heaven's  most  ennobling  gift  to  man.  We 


* 


INITIATION.  135 

have  sworn  away  our  free-will,  we  have  made  our 
selves  bond  slaves  to  a  mystery,  we  have  chosen 
men  for  the  masters  of  our  very  souls,  whose  des 
tinies  we  have  blindly  placed  in  their  hands,  and 
now" — and  as  Franz  continued,  his  face  grew  pale 
as  ashes,  "  that  oath  was  a  sin,  and  I  tell  you  that 
if  it  would  compel  me  to  commit  another,  and 
perhaps  a  greater  crime,  I  will  not  keep  it,  so 
help  me  God  1" 


.  Jj     * 
•"'•    ••  • 


*       -• 


*..,    .», 

;  **'"•• 


-*; 

*  *. 


.  f 

%»,- , 


w  f"   ''  4 
*%  •*-.. 


• 

XIII. 


rMHE  Autumn  came  on  with  its  varied  foliage 
JL  and  its  sanguine  sunset,  and  passed  away, 
and  the  winter  set  in  with  cold  drizzling  rains 
arid  murky  skies.  An  English  relative  of  ours 
had  -died,  leaving  some  entangled  property  to  my 
mother,  and  early  in  December  I  was  obliged  to 
go  to  London  to  attend  to  it.  Before  my  busi 
ness  was  nearly  concluded,  however,  I  received 
letters  from  my  wife  urging  me  to  come  imme 
diately  home.  One  of  the  usual  legal  postpone 
ments  occurred  about  this  time,  and  I  was  ena 
bled  to  comply  with  her  wishes. 


JOY    AND    WOE.  137 

Everything  looked  cold,  desolffte  and  dreary  ill 
the  wintry  twilight,  as  I  reached  the  gate  of  my 
home.  The  discolored  anow  was  bea.ten  hard 
upon  the  path  which  wound  through  the  leafless 
trees,  and  there  were  none  of  the  pleasant  sounds 
of  the  country  heard,  no  cackling  of  fowls,  nor 
bustle  of  attendants.  Even  my  dog  did  not  bark. 
The.  house  was  shut  up,  and  not  one  twinkle  of 
light  showed  it  to  be  inhabited.  A  cold  chill  ran 
over  me  as  I  rang  the  bell ;  which  was  not  an 
swered  with  the  usual  punctuality,  or  at  least,  so 
it  appeared  to  rhe. 

At  last  I  heaRi  a  shuffling  along  the  hall,  and 
a  fumbling  at  the  door;  and  as  the  latter  was 
slowly  opened,  a  cross  female  vpic'e  was  audible. 

"  What  kind  of  an  hour  is  this  to  come  home  ? 
just  when  tea  is  over  ?  there  will  be  fresh  tea  to 
make,  I  suppose.  Some  people  have  no  decency. 
Well:  come  in,  will  you  ?"  and  there  stood  Trud- 
chen,  holding  the  door  handle  in  one  hand,  and  a 
small  tray  with  a  cup  and  saucer  on  it  in  the 
other. 

"  How  do  ?  Trudchen  ?  all  well  ?" 

"  Ah  !  thou  good  Lord  !  did  I  not  knoV  it  was 
the  Herr  !"  And  so  speaking  she  dropped  the 
cup  and  saucer  and  incontinently  kissed  me  upon 
both  cheeks. 


138  THE    BLOODSTONE. 

"  Come  in"  she  said,  "  thou  poor  soul.  Come 
out  of  the  freezing  wind  there.  The  kettle  is  just 
a-boiling  and  a  hot  cup  of  tea  will  soon  do  you 
good.  Give  me  that  dear  little  cloak  and  the 
blessed  hat,  and  the  beloved  gloves." 

She  took  each  article  as  she  named  it.  and  then 

' 
seeming  suddenly  to  get  a  new  idea,  threw  them 

in  a  bundle  upon  the  floor,  and  leaving  the  door 
wide  open,  turned,  went  crash  through  the  frag 
ments  of  the  china,  and  darted  to  the  study  door, 
which  she  flung  open  crying  out. 

"  It  is  he,  dear  lady,  it  is  the  poor  little  man 
come  home.  It  is  the  master,  Herr  Doctor,  but 
he  has  broken  a  tea  cup." 

Tea  was  just  over,  and  the  table  was  still  stand 
ing.  Marie  and  her  uncle  and  Franz,  with  the 
child  upon  his  knee  were  seated  about  the  stove, 
and  old  Soc  was  busy  removing  the'plates.  I  had 
embraced  my  wife,  and  was  advancing  to  shake 
hands  with  the  Doctor,  when  Trudchen  rushed 
like  a  whirlwind  between  us,  tore  the  child  from 
Franz  and  pushed  it  into  my  arms  exciaiming, 
"  Will  he  never  speak  to  the  child  ?  Is  his  heart 
frozen  ?  His  own  flesh  and  blood  too ;  it  is 
shameful !" 

Then  apparently  satisfied  with  my  reception  of 


JOY   AND   WOE.  1 

her  baby,  she  stormed  out  of  the  room  saying 
"  Now,  I  will  get  him  some  tea." 

When  the  ordinary  first  questions  and  answers 
were  over,  I  observed  that  my  brother  in  law  was 
greatly  changed.  He  had  grown  thin  and  pale  ; 
and  a  strange  heavy  melancholy  had  become  the 
characteristic  of  his  face.  To  my  inquiries,  he 
only  answered  that  he  had  not  been  very  well  for 
some  days,  and  then  turned  the  conversation. 

The 'night  passed  on  in  talk  about  London  and 
my  voyage  thither,  and  when  bed  time  arrived, 
we  wished  each  other  good  night  and  retired. 

"  Marie,"  I  asked  ti»  soon  as  we  had  entered 
our  room,  "  what  is  the  matter  with  Franz." 

"  I  do  not  know, "-she  said,  "  he  has  been  ill 
ever  since  his  return  from  Heidelberg." 

"  From  Heidelberg  ?" 

"Yes,  I  wrote  to  you  that  he  had  gone  there. 
He  went  about  a  week  after  you  had  left,  re 
mained  absent  two  or  three  days,  and  has  been 
ever  since  just  as  you  saw  him  to-night." 

"  But  have  you  asked  him  no  questions  ?" 

"  Yes,  at  first ;  but  he  merely  replied  that  he 
was  unwell,  and  showed  so  evident  a  disinclina 
tion  to  converse  about  himself,  that  I  have  desist 
ed.  Unole  declares  as  usual  that  the  stomach  is 
out  of  order,  and  treats  him  with  quinine.  But 


140  THE    BLOODSTONE. 

I  think  that  his  mind  is  more  ill   than  his  body. 
Perhaps  lie  will  be  more  communicative  to  you." 
"  Well,  the  night  for  sleep  :  light  cometh  with 
the  morning." 




The  next  morning  after  breakfast,"  I  proposed 
to  Franz,  as  the  weather  was  clear  and  cold,  to 
walk  up  the  river  As  far  as  Neuwied,  on  pretence 
of  wanting  some  gloves,  for  which  the  Moravians 
of  that  town  are  famous.  He  assented  and  we 
started'. 

On  this  road,  the  western  bank  of  the  river, 
there  is  an  ancient  Station  of  the  Cross,  leading 
from  the  town.  That  is  there  are  seven  shrines 
each  containing  a  picture  of  some  act  qr  suffering 
of  the  Redeemer  as  he  bore  his  cross  toward  the 
Mountain  of  the  Crucifixion.  At  each  of  these  it 
was  the  custom  of  the  Catholic  to  stop  and  pray, 
making,  at  certain  periods  of. the  year,  proces 
sions  for  that  purpose,  and  halting  about  a  mile 
from  Andernach  at  a  road-side  Altar  whereon  the 
Mass  was  celebrated. 

Now  as  we  passed  one  of  these  stations,  which 
represented  our  Lord  falling  beneath  the  weight 
of  his  cross,  I.  saw  Franz  fix  his  eyes  earnestly 
upon  it,  and  his  lips  moved  .as  if  in  prayer. 

•T^f*1  • 


JOY   AND   WOE.  141 

"  Franz,  my  dear  brother,  you  are  greatly 
changed  since  I  left ;  you  are  pale  and  broken 
hearted  looking  ;  what  is  it  ails  you  ?" 

"  Something  very  hard  to  cure,  Paul." 

«  What  is  it  ?" 

"  An  evil  deed  that  cannot  be  undone." 

"  Do  you  mean  the  Nameless  Franz  ?" 

"  I  do." 

"  But  why  Buffer  it  to  destroy  your  good  spirits 
away  thus  ?  What  after  all  is  it  ?  A  student  no 
tion  of  mystery  which  will  wear  itself  out  with 
our  advancing  age."  •  , 

"  Say  rather  which  will  wear  away  our  lives  ; 
if  not  our  souls  in  unavailing  remorse." 

"  But  Franz,  you  did  not  use  to  take  so  gloomy 
a  view  of  a  matter  :  why  should  you  forebode  so 
of  this.  If  it  lead  to  any  serious  consequences  ;  if 
it  lead  to  crime,"- 

"  It  does,  lead  to  crime,"  he  said  hotly,  "  to 
crime,  fiendish  as  ever  Hell  suggested,  or  man 
was  willing  to  conceive." 

I  started ;  and  looked  at  him.  There  was  no 
mistaking  either  his  earnestness  or  his  perfect  ra 
tionality. 

"  What  can  you  mean,  Franz  ?" 

"  I  will  tell  you.  Just  after  you  left  for  Lon 
don,  I  was  summoned  to  q,  meeting  of  the  most 


142  THE    BLOODSTONE. 

. 

enthusiastic  6f  the  Nameless— and  well  are  they 
so  called,"  he  added  bitterly,  "  for  their  thoughts 
may  not  be  named. — And  there  was  proposed, 
and  plotted  a  devilish  act — an^-a — a  deed  with 
out  a  name.  I  will  not  tell  you,  Paul,  I  will  fall 
alone  :  one  victim  is  enough.  That  dark  browed 
Councillor,  and  Heffernan,did  all.  Oh,  my  God, 
one  hasty  deed  !  one  evil  deed !" 

"  But  you  could  not  consent" to  a  crime,  my 
brother." 

"I  did  not  consent  to  it,  I  spurned  it  indig 
nantly.  I  spoke  against  it  in  the  names  of  God 
and  man:  I  shouted  my  negation;  but  it  was 
voted  and  it  is  resolved." 

"  But  why  not  threaten  to  make  it  public." 

"  Because  of  the  oath  we  swore,  Paul  Calvert, 
the  accursed  secret  oath." 

The  terms  of  the  oath  came  back  upon  me :  the 
dreams  of  my  "youth  came  back :  my  inherited 
and  self-educated  ideas  of  a"  word  of  honor :  my 
hatred  of  informers.  It  seemed  to  me,  that  I  had 
leagued  myself  with  demons ;  that  I  had  shut 
myself  out  forever  from  my  fellows;  from  my 
wife ;  from  my  little  one.  I  sat  down  by  the  road 
side  and  covered  my  face  with  my  hands.  Then 
I  rose  gloomily  and  said, 

"  We  swore  together  Franz,  together  let  us 


J  O  Y      A  N  D      "W  O  E .  143 

bear  the  Consequences;   tell  me  this  meditated 

deed." 

"  No,"  he  safd,  "  one  victim  is  enough." 

I  argued,  but  he  told  me  of  my  wife  and  child, 

that  my  life  and  its.  interests  were  not 'mine  but 

theirs. 

i  ' 

I  plead  with  him,  but  he  answered  firmly ; 

"  No  Paul,  one  victim  is  enough."     . 

With  this  I  .was  obliged  to  content  myself  for 
the  present :  and  the  long  walk  brought  us  both 
back  to  calmness,  Franz,  having  resolved  to  seek 
a  religious  solution  of  his  difficulties,  and  I,  after 
my  dreamy  habit,  finding  relief  in  the  vagueness 
of  the  threatened  danger.  » 

In  human  life  there  is  but  one  step  from  the 
shade  into  the  sunshine.  On  reaching  home  we 
learned  that  my  wife  had  issued  invitations  for  a 
rejoicing  party  in  honor  of  my  return,  and  she 
and  Trudchen  and  old  Soc,  the  cook  and  the 
chambermaid,  were  greatly  oppressed  with  busi 
ness.  There  were  .pies  and  Kuechen  to  be  made  : 
dishes  of  unknown  ingredients  to  be  concocted  j 
wines  to  be  brought  from  the  cellar  and  ticketed ; 
Sauer-braten  to  be  cooked  for  the  Burgomeister, 
love-cake  for  the  maidens,  Kraut  and  haasen- 
pfeffer  for  the  fat  major  commanding  at  Ander- 


144  THE  BLOODSTONE. 

nach,  and  pumpernickle  for  the  lieutenant  from 
Wesphalia. 

Fiddlers  must  be  had  from  town  for  the  waltz 
of  the  girls  after  supper.  JThe  -dairy  women  must 
be  hunted  for  and  laden  with  orders  for  unlimited 
cream.  It  was  hinted  that  if  Franz  wouW  take 
his  rod  and  whip  a  few  trout  out  of  the  burn  at 
Nettehaus,  his  labors  should  be  rewarded  with 
gratitude.  Would  I  just  run  up  to  Coblenz  and 
get  a  bit  of  roe  venison  ?  Would  Uncle  be  sure 
of  the  wine  that  the  major  at  least  might  be  sat 
isfied  ? 

Of  the  quantity  of  mingled  gibberish  and  "nig 
ger,"  which  old  Soc  uttered,  fondly  supposing  it 
to  be  German :  of  the  masses  of  crockery  smashed 
by  unhandy  Trudchen;  of  the  amount  of  scold 
ing,  blundering,  cooking  and  fretting  on  that 
eventful  day,  there  is  no  record  extant,  neither 
can  my  memory  do  it  adequate  justice. 

Suffice  it,  that  the  morrow  dawned  and  waned, 
and  at  a  >good  early  German  hour — say  six 
o'clock,  the  guests  assembled.  There  was  Bur- 
gomeister  Kugelspiel  and  Frau  BurgGmeisterinn 
Kugelspiel  and  the  two  plump  maidens  who  were 
pledges  of  their  affection  and  the  girl  who  car 
ried  the  lantern,  for  the  worthy  people  proposed 
to  walk  home.  There  was  Major  von  Schnur- 


JOY    AND    WOE.  145 

•    -.       '   *i-      •        .'     *   '' 

bart  and  two  young  lieutenants  who  were  addic 
ted  to  new  uniforms  and  emaciate  moustachios. 
There vwere  a  dozen  girls  and  mamas  and  burgher 
papas  of  more  or  less  obesity  according  to  their 
callings ;  and  most  of  the  worthy  men  brought 
long  pipes  with  them,  except  the  officers  who- 
smoked  only  segars,  as  military  men  are  indeed 

bound  to  do. 

"  ;  X  '  -T  •       •  .  *  •-.- 
And  in  the  kitchen,  were  two  tail  corporals  and* 

two  handicraftsmen,  who  were  lovers  of  the  par 
lor  folk's  handmaidens,  and  the  '  blessed  Peter' 
had  come  from  Elberfeldt  and  they  danced  there 
to  the  rich,  guggling  whistle  of  Socrates  'the 
Black. 

So  they  ate  and  they  drank :  the  ladies  sipping 
their  coffee  and  causing  pounds  of  sweet  cake  to 
disappear,  and  the  worthy  burghers  pitching  into 
the  solids  and  the  Rhenish  wines  with  that  enor 
mous  power  of  deglutition  confined  to  German 
burghers  alone  upon  this 'earth.  And  having 
eaten  they  smiled  fat  smiles  expressive  of^  much 
calm  joy,  and  drank  their  black  coffee  and  their 
glass  of  Schnapps,  and  retired  to  the  study  where 
they  smoked  contemplative  pipes  and  were  still. 

|3ut  the  young  people  waltzed  in  the  drawing 
room,  and  the  plump  mamas  played  whist  in  the 

corners,  and  the  papas   strayed   in  when  their 
13 


146  THE    BLOODSTONE.' 

'.          .  3f 

pipes  were  emptied,  and  Marie  moved  about  like 

an  angel  carrying  jpy  in  her  motions  and  bene 
dictions  in  her  smile. 

Now  and  then,  she  and  I,  as  tjermari  house 
holders  should  do,  went  down  into  the  kitchen  to 
see  how  all  fared  there  and  we  were  both  pleased 
with  Trudchen  the  unhandy.  Once  she  was 
caught  exhibiting  the  baby;  but  oftener  sitting 
opposite  her  Peter  and  gazing  at  him  lovingly  as 
he  ate  and  drank :  once  I  saw  her  executing  a 
slow  waltz  with  vaccine  gracefulness  :  and  once 
patting  his  hand  as  he  smoked ;  and  my  last  vision 
of  her  that  night  was  hef  pressing  tenderly  upon 
his  acceptance  a  gigantic  chunk  of  sausage,  and 
when  he  bit  out  the  first  vast  mouthful,  her  heart 
melted  within  her  and  she  sank  upon  his  bosom 
overcome  with  tenderness  and  said,  <...;* 

"  Oh  thou  blessed  Peter  f" 


*  "»;*.' 
Y,  *>•'£' 


*  *- 

' 


'•  .    ;  .'..-,'     "•• 

J-- '•?-;>;*;•    XIV. 
e  £  p  a  t  s  u  p  a  n  the  §  I  a  0  &  s 


THE  next  morning  the  mail  brought  me  letters 
which  required  my  immediate  presence  in 
England,  and  my  departure  was  fixed  for  the 
following  day.  As  soon  as  this  was  made  known 
Franz  told  me  what  his  resolve  had  been.  He 
had  gotten  what  light  he  could  upon  the  subject, 
and  had  resolved  that  no  vow  could  bind  to  the 
commission  of  a  crime,  either  religiously  or  hon 
orably — and  also  that  it  was  his  duty  to  use  his 
utmost  exertions  to  prevent  its  success. 


148  THEBLOODSTONE. 

He  had  therefore  written  to  Caspar  Heffernan 
and  to  Heyne,  the  black-haired  Councilman,  re 
quiring  from  them  a  renunciation  of  their  project, 
apd  threatening  in  the  event  of  their  refusal,  to 
lay  the  matter  before  the  authorities,  and  he  had 
received  their  replies  this  morning. 

"  Well,  Franz,"  I  asked,  "  what  reply  do  they 
make  ?" 

"  They  say,"  he  answered,  "  that  a  decree  once 
passed,  is  irrevocable— that  they  will  not  even 
modify  their  project,  and  that  they  do  not  fear 
my  threats." 

'  And  what  will  you  do?" 
'  I  will  go  to  Berlin  to-night,  and  will  give  at 
least  such  information  as  will  prevent  the  execu 
tion  of  the  crime." 

"  But  is  not  this  a  betrayal  of  your  com 
rades  ?" 

"  It  js  no  betrayal,  Paul.  I  will  never  tell, 
even  for  the  torture,  who^  have  conceived  this 
deed ;  but  I  will  say  that  it  is  projected,  and 
must  be  well  guarded  against.  But  I  will  not 

be  a 1  will  not  stain  my  soul  with  this  crime ; 

and  no  law,  human  or  divine,  emanating  from 
God's  justice  or  from  man's  code  of  honor,  re 
quires  it  at  my  hands." 

"  What  is  this  secret,  Franz  ?" 

/ 


THE  SPOTS  UPON  THE  BLOODSTONE.!  49 

"  I  will  not  tell  you." 

"  Am  I  not  one  of  the  Nameless  —  do  I  not 
also  wear  the  Bloodstone  ?" 

"  It  is  true,  and  I  mourn  for  it.  But  you  must 
ask  what  you  seek  from  another  source." 

"  But  Franz,  if  there  be  danger  to  you,  -I  can 
help  to  guard  you  against  it." 

"  If  there  be  danger,  Paul,"  he  said  sadly,  but 
with  immovable  firmness,  "  if  there  be  danger, 
one  victim  is  enough." 

Further  argument  was  useless  ;  he  started  that 
night  for  Berlin,  and  I  saw  him  depart  with  an 
indefinable  terror  which  I  could  neither  account 
for,  nor  get  rid  of. 

The  next  morning  I  also  took  boat  down  the 
river  for  Bonn  on  my  way  to  London.  My 
banker  resided  at  Bonn,  and  1  wanted  money  for 
several  purposes,  so  that  I  was  compelled  to  re 
main  over  night.  I  had  made  my  business  ar 
rangements,  and  was  writing  in  my  room  at  the 
Hotel  de  Treves,  when  about  eight  o'clock  a 
knock  sounded  at  my  door,  and  as  I  cried  '  come 
in/  the  door  opened  and  Heyne  entered.  I  looked 
into  his  inscrutable  black  eyes,  and  I  believe 
turned  pale  —  but  he  took  no  notice  of  it,  and 
without  speakin<r,  made  the  recognition  sign  of 


,,,  .?*       4*- »'-,•_ 

150  THE    BLOODSTONE. 

the  Society.  I  replied  to  it,  and  pointed  to  a 
chair,  which  he  refused  with  a  nod  of  the  head. 

"  "What  can  I  do  for  yo    ?"  I  inquired. 

"  I  have  come,"  he  said,  "  to  summon  you  to 
a  meeting." 

"  But,  my  dear  sir,  it  is  impossible — most  im 
portant  business  calls  me  to  London.*' 

"  Morp  important  business  calls  you  to  go  with 
me.  But  you  will  be  required  only  to  resign 
your  sleep.  It  is  to  night  that  the  meeting  will 
be  held,  and  you  can  resurne  your  voyage  to-mor 
row." 

"  "What  is  the  object  of  this  meeting  ?" 

"  You  will  be  told  by  him  who  will  preside  at 
it." 

"  Where  and  at  what  hour  will.it  be  held." 

"  For  the  time,  two  hours  after  midnight.  For 
the  place,  I  will  .guide  you  to  it." 

"But  I  will  not  be  led  there  blindly,  I  am 
no  child  to  be  frightened  by  mysteries,  I  will  not 
go." 

"  You  will  be  compelled  to  go." 

"  Indeed !"  I  said,  rising,  "  who  then  will 
compel  me  ?" 

"  Your  own  pledged  word  of  honor  and  your 
oath." 

"  Leave  me  for  five  minutes,"  I  said — "  at   the 


THE  SPOTS  UPON  THE  BLOODSTONE.  151 

expiration  of  that  time  you  shall  receive  my  an 
swer." 

He  made  no  objections,  but  silently  left  th*» 
room. 

As  soon  as  I  found  myself  alone,  I  endeavored 
to  reflect  calmly  upon  my  position.  I  recalled  all 
that  Fr'anz'had  told  me,  and  all  that  he  feared.  I 
knew  him  to  be  cool,  courageous,  and  neither 
over'imaginative  nor  over  prudent.  I  recalled 
my  first  ideas  on  joining  the  Society  ;  it  was  a 
mere  student  act,  every  body  did  it/  there  were 
twenty  such  unions  at  Bonn.  But  the  after  ini 
tiation  into  closer  union  was  an  act  of  intoxica 
tion  —  was  the  deed  of  a  moment  of  excitement  ; 
and  yet,  all  this  gave  me  no  excuse.  I  had  given 
my  word  of-  honor,  my  loyalty  —  that  feeling 
which  I  had  nurtured  and  pampered  with  reading 
and  dreams  of  impossible  things  —  that  was  at 
stake.  Besides,  why  should  I  fancy  that  any 
thing  terrible  was  to  be  done?  If  an  evil  deed 
were  meditated,  I  would  at  least  be  there  to  op 
pose  it  —  perhaps  to  prevent  it. 

"  Well  !"  said  Heyne,  opening  the  door,  "  the 
five  minutes  are  gone."  . 

"I  am  ready,"  I  replied}  "let  -us  go." 

So  out  we  went  through  the  passages  of  the 
hotel,  down  the  long  staircases,  and  out  of  a  side 


*i  .- ;- :-; 

152  THE  BLOODSTONE. 

•  -*.-•* 

door  into  a  -narrow  street  leading  from  the  mar 
ket  place  to  the  nvej.  It  was  deserted,  or  almost 
so,  even  at  that  early  hour.  A  dim  lamp  shone 
in  two  or  three  shop  windows  ;  sounds  of  talking 
or  laughter  or  singing  came  from  the  wine  and 
beer  cellars,  and  through  the  Gothic  windows  of 
the  Church  of  St.  Martin  the  lamp  of  the  Sanctu 
ary  glimmered  redly.  We  crossed  the  bridge  of 
boats  beneath  which  the  turbulent  wintry  river 
was  rushing  violently,  to  Beuel,  and  through  that 
village  out  into  the  country. 

The  night  was  cloudy,  although  there  was  a 
brilliant  moon — and  as  the -cold  wind  .drove  the 
vapory  masses  over  her  disk,  the  eerie  shadows 
crept  along  the  earth.  My  comrade  did  not 
speak,  and  he  was  too  little  to  my  fancy  to  induce 
me  to  break  the  silence.  At  about  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  from  Beuel,  we  found  two  horses  picketed 
near  a  .tree.  A  man  rose  from  the  ground  as  we 
approached,  and  turned  towards  us.  Heyne 
whispered  to  him,  and  then  saying  to  me,  "  We 
mo.unt  here,"  got  into  the  saddle  impatiently. 

I  followed  his. example,  and  the  horses  sprang 

forward.     Fleet  through  cold  air  was  that  fear- 
° 

ful  ride;  fleet  through  the  rare  moonlight  and 
the-  frequent  shadows.  We  avoided  the  villages 
that  stud  the  banks  of  the  Ehine ;  but  as  I  would 


A      ,4 


THE  SPOTS  UPON  THE  BLOODSTONE.153 

follow  my  companion  through  some  bye-path,  I 
could  hear  their  faint  hum,  and  see  the  gleaming 
of  their  lights.  Sometimes  we  galloped  over  the 
desolate  fields,  whence  the  harvest  had  long  be 
fore  been  gathered  :  sometimes  we  floundered 
through  a  drift  of  enow,  heaped  up  by  the  winds 
of  the  last  storm. 

As  we  rode  past  Erpel,  the  distant  chimes  told 
eleven — and,  a  few  moments  after,  we  halted.  It 
was  only  to  change  horses,  however,  and  then 
once  more  we  dashed  forward.  Once,  and  once 
only,  we  clattered  through  the  single  street  of  a 
wretched  hamlet,  and  roused  perhaps  the  slum 
bering  hind  from  his  hard  bed ;  but  for  the  most 
part  we  were  in  the  open  country.  Heyne 
seemed  guided  by  instinct.  He  would  strike 
boldly  across  wide  arable  lands  where  I  could 
see  no  pathway  :  he  never  drew  bridle  at  diverg 
ing  roads;  he  did  not  slacken  his  pace  when 
wayside  forests  shut  out  entirely  the  intermittent 
moonlight. 

In  about  two  hours  we  again  changed  horses, 
which  were  always  ready  for  us  upon  the  road. 
Here  I  complained  of  thirst  and  of  fatigue,  and 
with  an  angry  "  pshaw  !"  my  conductor  muttered 
to  the  man,  who  produced  a  bottle  of  Bordeaux 
wine  and  a  large  leathern  cup,  which  he  thrust 


•-,-;?  .    » 

154  THE     BLOODSTONE. 

.       .  '          .0 

into  my  hands.  I  drank  freely,  and  felt  my 
strength  renewed.  And  now  a  strange  exhilara 
tion  took  possession  of  my  spirits.  This  wild  ride 
was  a  realization  of  some  of  my  dreams  of  yore. 
Whither  I  was  going  I  did  not  know,  and  I  soon 
ceased  to  care — my  errand  was  forgotten,  my 
fears  and  hesisation  .were  laid  aside ;  I  only  felt 
the  bounding  of  the  generous  beast  beneath  me  ; 
my  blood  flowed  warmly  through  my  veins,  and 
my  easily  excited  nature  yielded  to  the  inspiring 
swift  motion. 

"We  went  almost  as  the  crow  flies,  straight-  on 
our  course.  Occasionally  I  could  see  the  Rhine, 
now  black  beneath  the  passing  clouds,  now  rush 
ing  onward  coated  with  flashing  silver.  As  the 
night  deepened  every  sign  of  human  waking  dis 
appeared  in  the  isolated  dwellings  and  larger 
villages  that  we  passed.  Only  in  the  forges  did 
man  appear  to  take  no  rest ;  but  the  columns  of 
smoke  rose  from  the  tall  chimneys,  and  I  could 
hear  the  roar  of  the  ascending  flames  and  the 
clank  of  the  iron  pokers,  as  the  furnace  doors 
were  flung  open  for  new  fuel,  and  the  fierce  red 
glow  streamed  out  a  moment  luridly  into  the 
night.  On  through  the  cold  wintry  air — through 
the  weird  shadows  and  infrequent  light,  till  we 
had  passed  a  village  which  I  seemed  to  recognize 

*X      -  .^W 


SPOTSUPON  THE  BLOODSTONE.   155 

as  Niederbieber,  and  as  we  stopped  our  panting 
horses,  th&  church  bell  sounded  "one!" 

"  We  have  but  a  short  distance  left,"  said 
Heyne — "  we  will  walk  it." 

All  round  us  now  rose  the  thick  forest  of 
gloomy  pines ;  and  the  road  led  along  the  ice- 
clogged  bed  of  a  'torrent  which  in  Spring  and 
Autumn  tore  its  angry  way  through  briers  and 
tangled  cedar  brakes.  Only  rare  rays  of  light 
found  their  way  through  the  thick  evergreens  as 
we  rapidly  climbed  a  somewhat  steep  ascent.  No 
sound  broke  the  stillness  save  .the  sound  of  our 
own  footsteps,  the  plaintive  cheep  of  the  bat, 
and  the  wild  oo-la-loo  of  the  screech  owl. 

Suddenly  Heyne  paused,  and  I  followed  his 
example,  and  we  listened — I  not  knowing  where 
fore — and  then  the  stillness  was  broken.  Tramp, 
tramp  through  the  gusty  night,  like  the  measured 
sound  of  the  surf  heard  from  afar — it  might  be 
the  feet  of  fifty,  men,  it  might  be  of  an  hundred. 
Onward  towards  us  on  the  fitful  wind,  without 
any  pause  or  any  sound  of  music.  Nearer  and 
nearer  through  the  dusk  pines  that  skirted  the 
frozen  highway,  until  my  heart  beat  thickly  arid 
in  unison  with  the  fall  of  the  advancing  feet. 

Tramp,  tramp,  and  the  shadowy  figures  of  the 
night  marchers  emerge,  and  a  long  procession 


*-     •••  •    • 

**-  '    '   ' 

156  THE    BLOODSTONE. 

passes  without  a  look  cast  towards  us.  One 
sign  from  their  leader  answered  by  Heyne,  served 
for  all  recognition — and  they  go  on,  indistinct 
through  the  shadows,  and  we.  follow  them  and 
fall  in  with  their  solemn  measure,  and  tramp 
along  with  them,  on  through  the  gusty  night. 
And  the  infrequent  moonlight  still  shines,  and 
the  eerie  shadows  creep  along  the  earth. 

A  short  descent  down  a  hill-side,  and  a  black 
and  rugged--mass  rises  before  us.  Strong  ma 
sonry  with  torn  irregular  battlements?  and  great 
rifts  in  its  massive  sides.  The  dry  vines  rattle  at 
the  touch  of  the  wind ;  the  young  cedars  toss 
and  wave  upon  the  ruined  towers.  The  owl 
hoots  above  that  antique  dungeon  of  Braunsberg 
and  we  enter  the  cfoorless  port,  and  form  a  circle 
around  its  sides,  and.  the  tramp  ceases  and  all  is 
still. 

There  is  a  huge  black  mass  of  fallen  wall  in  the 
centre,  and  five  dusk  forms  are  upon  it^-I  can 
see  them  even  now  in  the  veiled  light — and 
Heyne  is  no  longer  beside  -me.  Then  a  low 
voice  speaks  through  the  stillness. 

"  Brothers,  we  have  been  betrayed,  and  the 
traitor  is  here,  and  ive  are  here  for  judgment. 
Our  council  met  and  decreed  an  act  of  holy  ven 
geance  ;  and  the  traitor  heard  it  and  has  betray- 


, 
SPOTS    UPON    THEBLOODSTONE.    157 

ed  it.  The  police  are  searching  now  for  him  and 
for  us ;  they  can  find  us  only  through  him.  Shall 
they  find  us  ?" 

A  low  murrnur  runs  round  the  ruin.*', 

"  Shall  they  find  hitn  ?" 

The  murmur  is  angry,  like  the  first  sounds  of 
a  storm. 

"  What  then  shall  be  done  with  him  ?" 

There  is  a  silence  heavy  and  ominous,  and  I 
listen  for  the  answer  in  wonderment  and  expecta 
tion. 

"Shall  he  die?"    ".' 

"And  the  deep  base  of  the  black-browed 
Heyne  answers  "  He  shall  die  !"  and  the  murmur 
of  the  circle  says  "  He  shall  die  !"  Then  another 
voice,  musical  and  firm,  is  heard. 

<{  The  charge  is  false— -I  did  not  betray  you." 

It  is  the  voice  of  Franz  von  Bergen,  my  bro 
ther's  voice,  and  I  shout  his  name  out  and  spring 
toward*  him,  A  dozen  strong  arms  seize  me 
and  draw  me  back.  My  blood  is  up,  and  I  fight 
fiercely  but  in  silence — and  while  the  struggle 
goes  forward,  I  hear  and  see  what  follows 

"  "Who  proves  the  accusation  ?" 

«  I  do'— and  I — and  I,"  and  three  step  forward 
before  the  judges. 

«  What  did  the  accused  ?" 
14 


158  THE    BLOODSTONE. 


"  He  gave  to  us,  disguised  as  members  of  the 
police,  information  which  would  prevent  the  exe 
cution  of  the  decree  of  the  Council.  Further 
more,  he  wrote  the  sam,e  to  Berlin,  and  this  we 
swear  upon  our  honor,"  and  the  three  fall  back. 

"•But  I  named  no.  names — I  refused  to  give 
any  sign  of  recognition  by  which  any  of  you 
might  be  known,"  cries  Franz. 

"  He  has  betrayed  in  part,"  says  the  deep  bass 
— w  he  will  betray  in  all.  Let  him  die." 

Once  more  I  hear  my  brother's  voice.  Solemn 
and  sweet  it  sounds  there — 

"  Thou  shalt  do  no  murder  !" 

There  is  a  swaying  and  a  murmuring  among 
the  men-a-I  hear  the  words  "  He  shall  not  die." 
A  cloud  heavier  than  usual  blots  the  moonlight 
out.  "  Courage,  Franz !"  I  shout,  and  I  struggle 
with  tenfold  strength.  "  Courage,  my  brother  !". 
The  grasp  of  my  captors  relaxes.  I  break  from 
them  and  bound  towards  Franz.  There  is  a 
flash  and  the  report  of  a  pistol.  The  fierce 
wind,  sweeps  along  in  a  suddep  aud  furious  gust 
— the  dark  cloud  is  swept  away  swifty,.and  the 
full  glory  of  the  moon  pours  down  within  the 
ruin  of  Braunsberg,  and  I  see  lying  there  at  my 
feet  the  dead  body  of  my  brother.  There  is  a 
blue  bullet  wound  upon  his  temples,  from  which 


THE  SPOTS  UPON  THE  E  LOO  D  ST  ONE.159 

a  few  drops  trickle  and  congeal  in  the  keen  air. 
A  smile  is  on  his  lips  :  the  Cross  of  Bloodstone  i& 
suspended  exposed  upon  his  breast. 

Motionless,  idealess,  I  stand  there.  Tramp, 
tramp,  through  the  night  so-und  the  retreating 
feet  of  the  Nameless  ;  tramp,  tramp,  beneath  the 
du-sk  pines,  along  the  frozen  highway.  And  the 
wintry  wind  wails  gustily,  and  the  infrequent 
moonlight  shines,  and  the  eerie  shadows  creep 
along  over  the  blood  stained  earth. 


** 


V- 

'* 


/  ••* 

*     f       4       ' 


V- 


'•'••-  -*•' 


I  STOOD  for  a  few  minutes  thus,  and  then, 
struck  by  a  sudden  impulse  of  terror,  turned 
and  fled  away.  I  had  not  gone  very  far,  how 
ever,  when  my  arm  was  caught,  and  I  turned  to 
see  Heyne's  gloomy  face. 

"  Our  horses  are  waiting,"  he  said,  "  and  you 
are  wanted  in  London." 

The  only  thing  that  struck  me  particularly  in 
this  remark  was  that  I,  could  go,  was  to  go  to 
London — to. another  and  distant  country,  and  I 
yielded  myself  obediently  to  the  guidance  of  the 


* 
RESULTS.  161 

Once  more  we  were  mounted  and  riding 
through  the  waning  night.  But  we  did  not  re 
turn  as  we  came ;  but  passing  Niederbieber  and 
holding  somewhat  south'ward  and  towards  the 
river,  we  swept  behind  Irlich  and  Fahr  to  within 
half  a  mile  of  Hammerstein^  where  we  dismount 
ed  and  walked  down  to  the  bank. 

Black  and  furious  is  the  course  of  the  Rhine  in 
the  angry  winter  months.  Black  and  furious  was 
its  course  that  night  as  we  embarked  in  -a  large 
flat-bottomed,  sharp  bowed  boat,  upon  its  rough , 
headlong  current.  The  current  itself  runs  at  the 
rate  of  nine  miles  an  hour  at  this  season  ;  ths 
strong  wind  blew  directly  abaft,  and  filled  our 
one  large  sail,  and  four  strong  oarsmen  relieved 
each  other,  and  two  by  two  worked  wearilessly. 
We  rather  flew  thaa  sailed.  The  shores  moved 
swiftly  past  like  shadows  :  the  waters,  cloven  by 
the  sharp  cutting  prow,  foamed  and  hissed  angri 
ly  along  the  sides,  and  so  the  night  waned,  and 
the  grey  misty  morning  had  begun  to  appear, 
and  the  shrinking  moon  had  grown  dim  ere  we 
landed  above  Beuil ,  and  crossed  the  bridge  of 
boats  to  Bonn. 

Heyne  'led  me  on  through  the  same  sleep 
ing  street,  in  at  the  same  side  door  up  to  my  room 
at  the  Hotel  de  Treves. 


I 


162  THE   BLOODSTONE. 

"  Remember,"  he  said,  -"  that  you  sail  for  Lon 
don  in  a  few  hours.  Remember  also  the  oath 
that  you  have  sworn,  and  remember  how  the 
Nameless  punish." 

He 'left  me,  and  I  was  alone,  and  still  possessed 
by  that  one  idea  of  personal  safety  and  desire  to 
get  to  England.  So  the  hour  came,-  and  I  was 
borne  away  down  the  Rhine  through  the  remain 
ing  glories  of  the  river,  through  flat  Westphalia 
and  still  flatter-  Holland,  to  Rotterdam,  and  so 
across  the  sea  to  Dover  and  to  London. 

The  business  which'  so  imperatively  demanded 
my  presence  was  the  settling  of  an  estate.  My 
personal  appearance  was  required  about  half  an 
hour  every  three  days,  for  some  reason  hidden 
among  legal  mysteries,  and  probably  known  to 
some  lawyers.  It  occupied  but  very  little  of  my 
attention.  Then  the  time,  what  should  I  do  with 
that?  I  was  no  longer  in  imminent  peril— but 
the  leisure !  The  leisure,  with  the  thought  it 
brought !  And  with  the  visions  that  it  brought 
I  tried  seeing  the  wonders  of  the  town,  but  it 
was  useless.  G6  where  I  would,  it  was  not  Lon 
don  but  Braunsberg  that  1  saw.  If  I  listened  to 
Theatre  or  Opera  orchestra,  or  to  the  playing  of 
a  military  band,  my  soul  kept  time  to  the  music 
with  memories  of  the  tramp  tramp  through  the 


E  E  S  U  L  T  8.  163 

forests  that  border  the  ruin.  If  I  saw  a  wall,  it 
was  the  masonry  of  that  old  keep.  If  ar  wind 
swept  the  stony  streets,  I  thought  that  it  rustled 
through  the  tangled  cedar  brakes  and  ancient 
pines. 

I  then  sought  for  relief  in  society,  to  which  I 
had  free  access — but  hollow  as  the  gay  world 
appears  to  most  observers,  it  seemed  doubly  so 
now  to  me.  A  certain  vague  terror  and  an  in 
distinctness  of  memory  prevented  any  conversa 
tion  from  interesting  me,  any  ordinary  pleasure 
from  producing  excitement  or  forgetfulnesS  of 
sejf.  It  was  the  same  with  literature.  My  en 
deavors  to  fix  my  attention  upon  any  book,  his 
tory  or  romance,  essay  or  poem,  were  futile ;  at 
the  third  page,  my  mind  was  away  from  the  au 
thor's  thoughts  to  the  dusk  German  forest,  the 
night  ride  and  the  vengeance. 

This  vagueness  was  dissipated,  and  the  settled 
frame  in  which  I  was  to  continue  for  a  longtime, 
was  produced  by  the  letters  from  home.  Those 
terrible  letters,  how  I  dreaded  them.  I  avoided  the 
Post  Office,  inventing  countless  excuses  to  satisfy 
myself  for  so  doing.  I  feared  even  to  meet  a  post 
man  ;  I  shuddered  at  the  sight  of  a  note  or  letter 
left  upon  my  table  during  my  absence.  But  they 
came  at  last.  If  I  had  avoided  the  Post  Office 


164  THE   BLOODSTONE. 

my  solicitor  had  not,  and  with  courteous  care 
he  had  ordered  communications  to  be  sent  to  my 
address,  and  so  those  letters  came. 

I  knew  them  long  before  I  read  the  addresses, 
and  I  sate  down  in  an  arm  chair  and  tried  to  for 
get  that  they  lay  there  upon  my  table.  Then  I 
persuaded  myself  that  twenty  little  matters  were 
to  be  done  about  the  room  before  I  might  read 
them  ;  and  when  at  last  I  had  read  the  address, 
I  examined  the  seals  and  noticed  a  flaw  upon  one 
of  the  impressions,  and  beguiled  more  time  by 
wondering  whether  the  flaw  were  in  the  cutting 
of  the  stone,  or  merely  the  result  of  haste  in  seal 
ing.  And  when  that  could  occupy  me  no  longer 
I  laid  them  down,  and  took  them  up  again  a 
dozen  times  before  I  broke  the  seal  and  read.  I 
left  my  wife's  last,  and  read  one  from  Heffernan. 

It  was  short,  and  strangely  ironic.  We  were 
all  murderers,  he  said,  and  all  doomed.  He 
cursed  the-  Society,  its  members,  the  hour  that 
he  joined  it  himself.  He  said  that  he  was  haunt 
ed,  and  he  described  that  haunting  with  fearful 
brilliancy  and  detail ;  and  he  said  that  he  intend 
ed  to  drink  and  drown  his  memory ;  to  drink 
himself  into  idiocy  if  he  could,  and  so  he  ended 
abruptly — wanting,  as  he  said,  no  answer. 

Then  there  was  a  letter  from  the  Doctor,  de- 


**.; 

RESULTS.  165 

tailing  the  discovery  of  the  body,  and  the  legal 
proceedings.  The  inquest  had  given  a  verdict.of 
suicide,  but  he  himself  had  examined  the  body  of 
his  nephew,  and  the  shot  never  came  from  his 
own  hand.  It  had  been  fired  by  ^a.  much  taller 
person,  for  the  ball,  after  piercing  the  skull,  had 
gone  down  through  the  brain.  Besides,  no  man 
arranged  his  person  after  death,  and  a  small  cross 
of  bloodstone  hung  in  such  a  position  that  any 
motion  of  the  body  after  it  were  placed,  would 
cause  it  to  fall  upon  one  side.  Neither  was  any 
pistol  found.  For  his  own  part,  the  same 
proofs  were  conclusive  against  suicide  or  a  duel 
— and  he  Heeded  no  proof — he  knew  his  boy,  and 
knew  that  he  was  too  amiable  for  the  one  and 
too  religious  for  the  other.  Franz,  he  conclu 
ded,  had  been  murdered ;  but  God  was  just, 
and  he  would  yet  discover  the  murderers,  and 
avenge  the  innocent  blood.  The  letter  was  stern 
and  full  of  a  determined  will,  now  thoroughly 
aroused. 

..  •  ,       •  •  . 

Again  I  trifled  before  I  could  open  Marie's 
missive ;  but  it  must  be  done. 

"  Oh,  Paul,  why  have  you  not  written?  More 
than  two  weeks  away,  and  not  one  word  from 
you,  and  I  alone  here  with  this  terrible  anguish. 


166  THE     BLOODSTONE. 

Oh,  if  you  could  have  seen  him,  as  he  lay  in  the 
hall  there,    with  that  blue,  cruel  spot  upon  his 
beautiful  forehead,  and  the  black  thin  streak  of 
blood  that  had  flowed  down  into  his  curls,  and 
lay  there  now  dried  and  black." 

If  I  could  have  seen  him  !  Good  God  !  did  I 
not  see  him  now  ?  -There  he  lay,  amid  the  lines 
traced  by  my  wife's  hand — there,  upon  the  very 
letter  which  her  fingers  had  folded  and  sealed — 
there  he  lay,  as  still  and  as  dead  as  he  did 
among  the  lime  dust  and  broken  fragments  and 
trampled  snows  of  Bruunsberg.  And  if  I  looked 
at  the  fire,  I  saw  hrm  aniid  the  coals — and  if  I 
looked  at  my  pillow,  his  pale  head  with  its  bullet 
wound  lay  there.  If  I  could  have  seen  him. 
Father  in  Heaven,  will  the  day  ever  come  when 
I  shall  cease  to  see  him  ? 

"  They  have  accused  him,"  continued  the  letter, 
"  of  suicide,  those  cold  strange  men ;  but  they 
little  knew  how  pure  and  good,  and  pious  he 
was.  But  they  have  failed  to  persuade  the 
clergy  of  it,  and  Franz  sleeps  by  his  mother 
in  the  chancel  of  St.  Genevieve's.  But  I  am 
very  lonely  and  sad,  my  husband.  I  want  you 
beside  me  to  counsel  me  to  help  me  bear  this 
sorrow  patiently.  My  heart  wants  your  strong, 


RESULTS.  167 

loving  heart,  darling,  to  lean  on  in  its  broken- 
neSs." 

When  I  read  that  sentence    the  choking  sobs 

rose  up  in  my  throat,  as  they  rise  even  now  that 

I   write  it,  and  the  bitter,  bitter  tears  gushed 

from  my  eyes  and  dripped  heavily  drop  by  drop 

•      upon  the  letter.     But  the  weeping  brought  me 

no   relief,    and   when   it   was   over  I   went   on 

.  reading. 

"  Do  come  home.  Or  write  to  tell  me  when 
that  wearisome  business  will  be  finished— when 
you  vill  bring  me  back  my  only  support — your 
presence  and  your  love.  Come,  Paul,  come  back 
to  me." 

The  effect  produced  by  these  letters  was  at 
first  a  dull,  blank  feeling,  out  of  which  I  passed 
into  a  horror  of  terror  which  endured,  I  sup 
pose,  for  an  hour,  but  in  which  I  suffered  the 
torments  of  an  age  of  common  anguish.  This 
also  went  over,  and  I  settled  into  a  condition  of 
etill  suft'ering. 

If  I  seem  to  have  dwelt  too  long  on  the  descrip 
tion  of  my  boyhood,  of  what  I  have  called  my 
self-education,  it  was  in  order  to  make  clear  two 
prominent  qualities.  The  one  a  tendency  to 
reverie,  with  a  great  power  of  persuading  myself 
that  my  reveries  were  realities ;  the  other,  an 


*V  P 

'?.'.'  «£%•«-* 

168  THE    BLOODSTONE. 

overstrained,  erroneous  idea  of  honor  and  loyal 
ty.  This  latter  had  been  nursed  by  stories  of 
chivalry ;  histories  of  devotion  to  a  person  or  a 
cause ;  exaggerated  pictures  of  the  Cavaliers  un 
der  Charles  L,  and  of  the  Scotch  Highlanders  in 
the  days  of  poor  Prince  Charlie.  These  qualities 
revived  novv.  with  the  greater  strength  because  of 
the  unsettled  condition"  of  my  mind  ;  and  the  re 
sult  to  me  was  as  follows.  That,  having  once 
united  myself  to  the  Nameless,  our  fates  were 
thenceforth  inseparable — that  I  was  accessory  to 
the  assassination  of  my  brother-in-law,  and  that  I 
was  irrevocably  bound  never,  to  confess  any 
knowledge  of  the  deed  or  of  the  circumstances 
connected  with  it. 

I  had  a  sort  of  sullen  resignation.  Fate  had 
thrown  me  into  a  position  for  which  there  was  no 
relief,  consequently  I  must  suffer  with  what  pa 
tience  or  stoicism  I  could  get.  This  became  my 
monomania.  Meantime  I  was  haunted.  The 
presence  of  Franz,  still  and  dead,  with  the  wound 
upon  his  forehead,  never  left  me.  I  saw  it  during 
rny  walks,  my  actions,  my  reveries  :  when '  I  re 
tired  to  sleep,  I  thought  that  his  cold  cheek  rest 
ed  white  upon  the  pillar  near  mine. 

The  thought  of  returning  home — of  facing  my 
wife — seemed  a  mere  impossibility.  I  could  not 


RESULTS.  J69 

even  write  to  her,  nor  to  her  uncle.  Letter  fol 
lowed  letter,  each  more  urgent  than  the  last,  for 
my  return,  and  all  were  left  unanswered.  My 
business  was  all  settled,  and  the  winter  had  worn 
away,  and  yet  I  lingered,  and  the  letters  came 
full  of  anxiety  and  doubt  and  fear — and  I  did 
not,  I  could  not  reply  to  them.  Finally,  towards 
the  close  of  February,  my  solicitor  showed  me  a 
letter  which  he  had  received,  demanding  news  of 
me,  asking  whether  I  were  dead  or  alive,  and  an 
nouncing  that  Dr.  Hoffnitz  had  left  Andernach 
for  London  in  search  of  me. 

The  lawyer  'seemed  very  curious  as  to  the 
cause  of  my  not  writing  home,  and  I  muttered 
something  about  the  miscarriage  of  mails  and  the 
pressure  of  business,  and  so  hurried  away  to  my 
rooms,  leaving  him  gravely  shaking  his  head. 

My  only  thought  was  how  to  escape  from 
London.  First  I  thought  of  America,  but  there 
my  mother's  first  question  would  be  for  Marie. 
Passports  and  the  police  rendered  it  too  easy  to 
trace  a  person  on  the  Continent.  Ireland  I 
thought  must  be  my  place  of  refuge.  I  had 
heard  of  it  as  a  wild  and  lawless  country,  and 
there  I  would  be  safe  with  my  secret.  While 
still  deliberating,  Dr.  Hoffuitz  entered  my  rooms 
— and  from  that  moment  I.  resigned  myself.  I 


\ 


- 

170  THE    BLOODSTONE. 


* 
felt  as  if  he  had  arrested  me.     I  saw  no  escape, 

and  prepared  to  accompany  him  at  once. 

He  was  much  changed,  absent  and  thoughtful 
throughout  our  journey,  which  prevented  his 
otherwise  inevitable,  observation  and  remark  up 
on,  me.  But  we  went  moodily  on  our  way,  and 
once  more  I  saw  the  cold  winter  sun  shine  down 
upon  the  Roman  tower  and  ruined  palace-walls 
of  antique  Andernach  —  once  more  I  saw  the 
beautiful  face  of  my  beloved  wife,  and  shuddered 
as  her  warm  arms  circled  my  neck  and  her  warm 
lips  were  pressed  upon  mine. 


./T  :  ,    .  *  4 

.  •        ** 


XVI. 


-         .  <jT  -  ' 

WHAT  is  the  power  of  one  deed  ?  Has  it  no 
limit  ?  Is  there  no  end  to  its  creation  of 
disastrous  consequences  ?  Not  boundless  desire 
can  heal  the  wound  it  makes ;  not  penitence  un 
measured  can  lessen  its  force,  not  tears  and  utter 
brokenness  of  heart  and  solemn  earnest  purpose 
of  future  good  can  atone  for  that  one  frightful 
deed. 

If  I  could  have  got  near  to  God,   I    might 
have  had  relief,  but  fervently  religious  though  I 


.. 

172  THE   BLOODSTONE. 

"  •'     **        "iLJI 

naturally  was,  I  could  not  even  look  thitherward. 
A  kind  of  despair  possessed  me,  not  a  despair  of 
His  mercy,  but  of  my  own  will  to  ask  for  it.  I 
had  but  one  thought,  and  from  it  nothing  could 

distract  me. 

•*• 

Among  my  fellows  in  the  street,  in  the  crowded 
assembly,  in  society  I  saw  the  one  terrible  Pres 
ence.  All  men  looked  like  Franz.  No  reason 
ing,  no  unnatural  ness,  no  effort  of  the  intellect 
could  master  that  imagination.  I  saw  the  resem 
blance  vivid  and  unrnistakeable  in  the  wrinkled 
face  crowned  with  white  scattered  hairs ;  saw  it 
in  the  round,  ordinary  features  of  the  chubby 
child.  It  startled  me  in  the  brown  peasant  girl 
whom  I  passed  upon  the  highway,  it  looked  out 
on  me  fixedly  from  the  inane  lineaments  of  the 
shop  dandy.  The  big,  dull,  blue,  German  eyes, 
the  keen,  small,  black  orbs  of  the  Jew  tradesman 
were  Franz's  own  brown,  liquid,  gentle  eyes.  I 
saw  his  face  in  that  of  the  dancing  girl ;  I  shud 
dered  and  hurried  on  without  reply,  when  a  stran 
ger  .stopped  me  to  demand  whither  a  road  or  riv 
er  lead.  The  likeness  of  my  wife  to  her  dead 
brother  seemed  to  increase  every  day  and  I  could 
not  even  look  upon  the  face  of  my  child.  Her 
playful  outstretching  of  the  arms  to  me,  her  in- 


POWER  OF  ONE  HASTY  DEED.    173 

nocent  smile,  her  voice,  her  very  existence  were 
agonies  to  me. 

In  the  tree  tops  there  was  no  sound  for  me  but 
the  rushing  of  the  midnight  wind  through  the 
gloomy  pines  of  Braunsberg.  In  the  sound  of 
horse  hoofs  or  the  march  of  men,  I  heard  but  the 
cruel  tramp  that  rose  dull  through  the  mists  of 
that  early  morning.  The  breaking  of  a  twig,  the 
whizz  of  a  passing  bird,  the  slow  fall  of  a  leaf 
through  the  quiet  air  made  my  heart  beat  with 
indescribable  terror. 

If  I  saw  a  uniform  in  .the  distance,  I  skulked 
into  some  lane  or  bye-path,  lest  the  soldier  might 
be  seeking  for  me  as  a  witness  on  a  new  inquest. 
It  was  rumored  that  the  King  was  about  to  make 
his  annual  tour  down  the  Rhine,  and  I  fancied  that 
he,  himself  was  coming  to  inquire  into  the  death 
of  the  student. 

I  pass  over  the  oral  repetition  of  what  had  been 
written  to  me,  the  account  of  the  discovery  of  the 
body,  the  inquest,  the  burial,  the  mysterious 
bloodstone,  the  bitter  weeping  of  my  poor  wife, 
the  stern  denunciation  and  threats  of  her  uncle. 
This  was  a  trial  that  I  had  foreseen  and  was  pre 
pared  to  endure.  But  then  followed  allusions  to 
and  reminiscences  of  Franz  until  my  soul  seemed 
wearing  out  within  me.  My  changed  mood  was 


.  . 

174  THE     BLOODSTONE. 

of  course  observed  at  last,  and  I  had  to  baffle 
curiosity.  To  the  question  "  What  is  the  matter  ?' 
I  at  first  returned  evasive  answers,  to  persistancy 
in  the  question  I  opposed  sullenness.  Marie  with 
her  feminine  gentleness  and  trust  in  me  soon  sigh 
ed  and  ceased  to  ask  me  anything  more,  and  it 
was  easy  enough  to  avoid  the  doctor,  who  prob 
ably  soon  discovered  some  excellent  medical  rea 
son  for  my  changed  mood. 

Hefferman  had  removed  to  Andernach  soon 
after  the  funeral  of  my  brother-in-law,  and  was, 
now  a  confirmed  sot.  I  never  saw  him  but  once, 
and  that  was  in  the  Church  standing  by  the  tomb 
of  the  dead.  He  saw  and  recognized  me, 
but  did  not  speak,  only  he  laughed  a  horrid 
laugh  and  left  the  place  at  once,  reeling  as  he- 
walked. 

And  so  the  spring  came  on,  and  the  trees  bud 
ded  and  leaved  out,  and  the  voices  of  birds  and 
hum  of  insects  began  to  fill  the  golden  air,  but 
there  was  no  Spring  for  me. 

I  loved  to  take  long  walks  alone,  I  would  cross 
to  Nenwied  and  go  back  to  that  ancient  ruin, 
and  sit  down  there  upon  the  mass  of  fallen  wall 
and  gaze?  there  at  the  Dead  as  if  I  could  gaze  it 
away.  I  would  try  to  convince  myself  that  the 
body  was  not  there,  I  would  pass  my  hands  over 

V*,*1'*        .'"'.** 


POWER   OF   ONE   HASTY  DEED.  175 

f~  • 

the  place  but  still  I  saw  it,  with  my  fingers  cut 
ting  through  it,  but  not  removing  it.  ^ 

And  at  last,  one  night  I  had  a  dream  wherein 
all  was  acted  over  again,  and  I  saw  the  eerie 
shadows  and  heard  the  wailing  wind.  And  I 
thought  that  a  gout  of  blood  had  fallen  on  my 

hands.      I  went  to  the  frozen  stream  and  there 

• 

was  no  water,  and  I  strove  to  rub  the  gory  stain 
away  with  bits  of  ice.  Failing  in  this  I  sought 
the  river  and  tried  to  wash  it  off.  But  the  rush 
ing  Rhine  seemed  to  mock  me  and  the  spot  grew 
brighter  the  more  I  rubbed. 

Then  I  thought  I  heard  voices  and  looking  up 
I  saw  rapidly  approaching  me  my  wife,  with  her. 
sad  eyes  bent  reproachfully  on  mine  and  her  un 
cle  with  stern  wrath  upon  his  f#ce.  Then  I  hid 
my  stained  hand  in  my  bosom,  and  the  Dead  rose 
up  behind  me  and  pointed  at  it.  Such  was  my 
anguish  that  I  awoke. 

The  cold  sweat  stood  in  great  drops  upon  my 
forehead.  Every  nerve  in  my  system  quivered, 
and  I  saw  Marie's  soft,  earnest  eyes  looking  pity 
ingly  and  wonderingly  at  me. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  dear  Paul,  that  you  are 
so  restless  and  talk  so  in  your  sleep  ?" 

"  Talk  !  Marie  !"  and  for  one  moment  my  horror 
was  too  deep  for  utterance.  Perhaps  I  hud  t»«- 


176  THE    BLOODSTONE. 

betrayed  all   in  the  mutterings   of  that   fearful 

dream. 

- 

"  What  then  have  I  said,  Marie  ?" 

"  You  muttered  indistinctly  for  a  while  and 
rubbed  your  hands  and  moaned  piteously,  and 
then  you  cried  out  '  Franz,  Franz,'  and  awoke." 

"  I  was  dreaming  of  hirn  Marie,  I  saw  him  as 
you  described  him  lying  below  there,  in  the  "hall, 
with  the  blue  mark  upon  his  forehead,  and  his 
clotted  hair.  0,  my  God  !" 

"  You  are  nervous,"  she  said  with  inexpressi 
ble  tenderness, -"  nervous,  and  I  fear,  very  ill. — 
Try  to  compose  yourself  again  to  rest  my  hus 
band." 

And  as  she  spoke  she  wjped  away  the  chill 
dews  from  my  forehead  and  bent  down  and  kiss 
ed  it.  And  the  fresh  pure  lips  of  my  darling  wife 
seemed  to  bum  into  my  brain  as  though  they  had 
been  of  steel  glowing  to  white  heat. 

"  Oh,  could  I  ever  rest  again  ?" 

Not  at  his  sister's  side;  that  at  least  was 
impossible.  Not  to  betray  in  my  restless  mid 
night  mutterings  the  secret  that  was  destro}7- 
ing  me,  and  wlrich  would  blast  her  youth  so 
surely.  So  upon  the  plea  of  illness,  I  told  her 
my  determination,  henceforward  to  sleep  in 
another  room,  I  should  have  said  rather  to  try 


POWER   OF   ONE   HASTY   DEED.  177 

to  sleep,  for  very  little  rest  visited  me.  And  often 
in  the  deep  midnight  or  by  the  pale  grey  moon 
of  the  early  morning  have  I  seen  my  wife  steal 
into  my  apartment  and  stand  looking  at  me, 
weeping  silently. 

This  also  grew  unbearable,  and  bye  and  bye 
her  very  presence  became  a  reproach.  I  locked 
my  door  at  night :  I  shunned  her  in  the  day  :  her 
caresses  were  reproiches  to  me  and  I  repulsed 
or  avoided  them.  I  never  even  looked  at  my 
child :  for,  the  last  time  it  had  nestled  in  my 
arms  its  fondlings  had  pressed  the  Bloodstone 
into  my  flesh,  and  I  shivered  as  I  pushed  tho 
wondering  little  one  away.  And  then  came  to 
Marie  the  conviction  that  I  had  ceased  to  love 
her.  Oh,  what  a  fearful  moment  must  that  be  to 
the  young  wife,  the  moment  in  which  she  feels 
assured  that  she  has  lost  her  husband's  affection. 

And  the  roses  withered  and  forsook  her  cheek} 
and  the  bright  light  of  healthfulness  faded  from 
her  beautiful  eyes  and  the  small  feet  stepped 
heavily  and  her  song  was  heard  no  more,  and  the 
pale,  thin  face  was  bent  mournfully  downwards 
towards  the  earth.  Yet,  Heaven  is  my  witness 
that  I  had  never  loved  her  as  dearly  as  I  did  then. 

One  song  only  was  left,  the  lullaby  of  her  child. 


173  THE    BLOODSTONE. 

Often,  often  have  I  heard  it  in  the  stillness,  as  its 
low  sweet  wail  lulled  our  infant  to  its  rest. 

Sleep,  my  hearts  child,  mine  own" darling  and  prize, 
Drop  the  fringed  lids  o'er  thy  dark  laughing  eyes. 
From  thy  fair  forehead  the  insects  I  wave, 
And  all  is  as  tranquil  and  stili  as  the  grave. 

Now  shines  thy  life-sun  with  goldenest  ray, 
And  nought  in  thy  future  is  hright-as  to-day. 
But  when  thy  bright  heaven  with  care  cloudeth  o'er, 
Sleep,  like  this,  darling,  will  bless  thee  no  more. 

Angels  of  glory  more  lovely  than  those, 
Press~  thy  white  eyelids  and  watch  o'er  thee  now; 
But,  when  they  visit  thy  fast  coming  years, 
'Twill  be  but  to  wipe  from  those  eyelids  the  tears. 

Sleep,  then,  mine  own  one,  sleep  on  till  the  dawn  ! 
Thy  mother  will  watch  till  the  shadows  be  gone, 
For  whether  she  smiles  on  thy  cradle  or  weeps, 
Her  love  for  thee,  darlingt  ne'er  slumbers  nor  sleeps. 

By  and  by,  that  song  ceased  to  have  power  : 
and  plaintive  moans,  patiently  uttered,  were  all 
that  I  heard,  and  the  mother  waxed  paFer  and 
sadder,  and  -old  Soc  and  Trudchen  walked  softly 
and  sighed  often,  and  at  last  they  told  me  that 
my  child  was  dying.  So  I  went  and  stood 
beside  the  bed,  as  the  little  sufferer  slowly  and 
painfully  breathed  out  her  soul,  and  when  she  lay 
dead  there,  I  saw  a  blue  mark  upon  her  sinless 
forehead  and  wondered  that  no  eye  saw  it  save 

mine  only. 

J 

And  then  I  laid  my  little  one  down  in  the 
chill  vaults  of  the  old  Chuich  and  the  stone  was 
cemented  above  her  and  her  mother  was  alone. 


;•"  •  ,   .  •*. 
'**"  • '' 


XVII. 

> 

effe  rmatu 


ONE  morning  I  sate  in  my  own  room,  resting 
rny  chin  upon  my  hands,  and  my  elbows  up 
on  the  window  ledge,  looking  out  upon  the  turbid, 
hurrying  river  and  striving  to  fall  into  some  such 
reverie  as  rushing  waters  woke  in  me  of  yore. 
Alas  !  youth  with  its  dreaming  had  gone  by,  more 
swiftly  I  thought,  than  even  the  tides  of  the  Rhine. 
My  efforts  were  all  in  vain.  In  the  sound  of  the 
rapid  waves  I  heard  the  student  tramp  .;  over  the 
face  of  the  stream  brooded  the  Presence.  I  felt 


180  THE    BLOODSTONE. 

the  light  touch  of  a  hand  upon  my  shoulder,  and 
looked  up  and  started. 

"  Franz !"  I  cried. 

"  It  is  I,  Paul,"  answered  the  low  voice  of  my 
wife,  as  her  mournful  eyes  looked  earnestly  into 
mine. 

"  Pardon  me,  Marie,  I  am  very  ill." 

"  You  look  so,  my  husband,  and  I  would  not 
have  disturbed  you,  but  my  uncle  is  below  and 
wants  to  speak  to  you  instantly." 

"Your  uncle?  Dr.  Hoffnitz !  ~What  can  he 
want  of  me  ?  I  cannot  see  him,  Marie." 

"  His  business  is  of  importance,  he  says." 

."  Of  importance.  Well,  I  will  come.  This 
must  end  sometime,  why  not  now.  Teil  him,  I 
am  coming  Marie,  tell  him  I  am  coming." 

I  saw  the  wondering  look  of  inefiable  sadness 
shadow  the  beautiful  face  once  more,  as  my  wife 
turned  away  and  left  the  room.  I  calmed  myself 
as  well  as  I  could  and  followed.  Dr.  Hoffnitz 
was  walking  up  and  down  beneath  the  lindens, 
and  as  soon  as  he  saw  me,  he  came  towards  me. 

"  Paul,"  he  said,  "  I  want  you  to  get  your  hat 
and  come  with  me." 

"  Whither,  Herr  Doctor." 

"  To  visit  one  who  raves  incessantly  about 
your  brother  Franz.  I  speak  of  Caspar  Hefier- 


CASPAR     HEFFERMAN.         181 

man.  You  know  what  his  course  has  been  of 
late,  and  now  his  mighty  frame  is  worn  ut ;  he 
lives  on  brandy  alone,  and  cannot  possibly  last 
more  than  a  couple  of  days.  This  morning  he 
desired  to  see  you,  and  I  promised  that  you  would 
come.  You  will  do  so,  will  you  not  ?" 

"  Doctor,  I  cannot,  I  am  myself  suffering  fear 
fully  ;  my  nervous  system  is  shattered,  I  could  not 
endure  the  sight  of  Hefferman. 

"  You  will  act  cruelly  if  you  refuse.  How 
have  you  lived  for  the  last  three  days  ?  "What 
have  you  eaten  and  drank  ?" 

"  Nothing,  save  bread  and  water." 

"  No  wonder  your  nerves  are  prostrated.  Half 
the  nervous  irritation  complained  of  is  imagina 
tive.  The  seat  of  the  imagination  is  the  stomach. 
Come  into  the  house,  order  a  cutlet  and  a  bottle 
of  Asmanshansen,  which  I  will  share  with  you, 
and  you  will  find  strength  to  perform  the  duty  I 
require  of  you,  for  a  duty  it  is." 

I  followed  the  Doctor's  advice,  and  indeed 
exceeded  it  so  far  as  the  wine  was  concerned. — 
The  fear  of  becoming  excited  by  the  generous 
fluid  and  of  disclosing  the  dreadful  secret  which 
tortured  me,  had  induced  me  to  give  up  the  use 
of  anything  but  water,  and  the  wine  was  conse 
quently  more  efficient  now  than  it  would  other- 
16 


182  THE    BLOODSTONE. 

wise  have  been.  It  did  calm  the  mere  ner 
vous  excitement,  but  the  cause  was  beyond  its 
reach. 

Dr.  Hoffnitz  conducted  me  round  the  walls  of 
the  town  along  the  river  side  and  we  eniered  by 
the   old  Roman  gate,   above   which  frowned  the 
Saracen   heads,  all    livii>g  with  the  likeness  that 
haunted  me.     After  climbing  the  stairs,  and  ad 
vancing  half  the  length  of  the  ancient,   narrow 
street,  he  stopped  at    the   door  of  a  tall,  thin, 
yellow  house,  and  said, 
"  It  is  here  that  he  lives." 
Just  opposite,  above  a  fountain  was  an  image 
of  the  Sacred  Mother  with  the  Holy  One  in  her 
arms,  and  a  lamp  before   it,  burnt  dimly  in  the 
sunshine  that  filtered    through   the   overhanging 
and  dilapidated  eaves.     It  was  one  of  the  poor 
est  quarters  'of  little  antique  Andernach,  and  as 
we  mounted  the  creaking  stairs,  the  smell  of  coarse 
food  and  fumes  of  vile  tobaccoj  mingled  with  that 
horrid  odor  peculiar  to  the  homes  of  the  crowded, 
unclean  poor.     Great  swarthy  spiders  lurked  in 
cornice  angles,  and  centipedes  crawled  over  the 
green-mould  blotches  on  the  moist  walls.      The 
stairs  creaked  beneath  our  tread,  and   often   my 
foot  would   slip  upon   the   unctions  steps.      All 
those  things  I  noticed  and  strove  to  think  about. 


CASPAR     HEFFERMAN.         183 

When  I  heard  a  rapping  upon  the  tables  of  the 
beer  house  below,  I  would  try  to  occupy  my  fan 
cy  with  the  desires  of  the  rapper,  with  his  prob 
able  condition,  with  his  trade  or  dress.  Any 
thought,  no  matter  how  trivial,  bow  absurd  was 
better  than  the  One. 

At  length,  after  mounting  two  flights,  the  Doc 
tor  stopped  and  knocked  at  a  door.  It  was  open 
ed  by  a  Sister  of  Charity,  to  whom  Hoffnitz  whis 
pered  something  and  then  passed  in,  beckoning 
me  to  follow  him.  1' did  so,  and  saw  a  poor  but 
clean  apartment  with  one  window  opening  on  the 
Rhine,  furnished  with  two  or  three  chairs,  a  stain 
ed  deal  table,  and  a  low,  coarse  bed.  Upon  the 
latter  lay  the  giant  frame  of  Caspar  Heflferman. 
The  vast  limbs  were  shrunken  and  emanciated, 
the  cheeks  sunken  and  sallow,  the  black  eyes  burn 
ing  with  fever  in  the  deep  shadows  of  their  sock 
ets,  the  raven  hair  and  beard  careless  and  wet, 
made  the  dead  pallor  of  the  face  still  ghastlier. 

When  I  saw  that  the  doctor  and  the  Sister  of 
Mercy  had  quitted  the  room  I  approached  the 
bed.  His  eyes  rested  on  mine  and  fixed  there, 
and  so  we  stood,  each  marking  earnestly  what 
traces  the  Secret  had  left  upon  the  other.  Then 
a  look  of  almost  fiendish  irony  rose  upon  his  fea 
tures  as  he  made  with  bony  hand  the  recognition 


184  THE    BLOODSTONE. 

sign  of  the  society.  I  shruddered  but  would  not 
make  the  countersign.  Hefierman's  eyes  flashed 
and  his  withered  lips  writhed  with  the  bitterness 
of  his  sneer. 

"  So  comrade,"  he  said  with  his  deep  musical 
voice,  "  you  have  forgotten  the  countersign  of  our 
brotherhood .?" 

I  made  no  answer. 

"  And  the  fraternal  kiss,  you  do  not  give  me 
that  ?"  he  continued  with  increased  scorn,  and 
then  his  mood  changed  suddenly, 

"  Paul,  have  you  also  been  haunted  ?  Have 
you  ate  and  drank  and  slept  and  made  merry,  or 
has  your  life  been  like  mine,  a  long  death,  or  worse 
a  long  damnation.  Look  at  me,  the  fever  fit  of 
young  enthusiasm  is  past,  but  the  vow  has  been 
always  upon  me.  Every  face  I  have  seen  has 
been  the  dead  man's,  every  hand  I  have  touched 
has  felt  like  the  bony  hand  of  a  skeleton.  Now 
in  your  temple  there,  I  see  the  blue  bullet  wound 
and  the  few  drops  of  oozing  blood.  I  know  it  is 
not  there,  yet  I  see  it.  I  have  not  even  the  con 
solation  of  the  lunatic  who  does  not  credit  his 
derangement.  I  know  that  "I  am  mad.  Give 
.me  that  drink  there." 

As  I  poured  out  the  contents  of  a  bottle  which 


•:*• 


* 


CASPAR     HEFFERMAN.          185 


stood  upon  the  table  near  him,  I  saw  that  it  was 
brandy,  and  said, 

"  Don't  drink  this  Hefferman,  let  me  get  you 
something  cool  and  nutritive." 

"  No,  the  brandy,  the  brandy,  I  live  by  that 
now,  1  should  rave  without  it,  and  I  want  to  talk 
with  you.  Fill  the  cup,  so,  up  to  the  brim,  it  will 
not  drown  the  dead.  His  eyes  look  up  through 
the  red  liquor  and  glare  on.  me  from  the  bottom 
of  the  cup.  Tell  me  how  you  have  lived." 

And  I  told  him  as  wejl  as  I  could,  the  story 
of  my  life  since  our  accursed  bond  was  sealed 
with  blood,  told  him.  how  Franz  had  been  brought 
home  and  laid  in  the  hall  with  coat  and  vest  fall 
en  back  and  the  bloodstone  cross  gleaming  over 
his  heart  in  the  light  of  the  candles.  And  as  I 
spoke,  I  instinctively  showed  the  l>adge  upon  my 
own  bosom.  "  The  cross  above  tbe  heart,"  mut 
tered  Hefferman,  "it  should  have  been  Cain's 
mark  here,"  and  he  placed  his  long  fore  finger  on 
his  forehead. 

When  I  had  concluded,  he  said, 

"  You  have  suffered  more  than  T,  for  I  was 
alone  in  my  terror.  And  you  have  born  it  brave 
ly.  Paul,  I  could  not  endure  that  memory,  and 
I  sought  refuge  in  wine,  and  when  that  had  lost 
its  stupify,  ing  power,  in  brandy.  Now  I  am  dying, 


186  THE    BLOODSTONE. 

this  attack  of  delirium  is  the   last.     So  says  at 
least  the  Doctor.     Do  I  not  appear  sane  and  calm 

to  younow  ?-'-•• 

•   *  *^ 
I  bowed  my  head  in  acquiescence. 

"Well,  even  now  the  fit  is  on  me.  Worse  al 
most  than  the  troops  of  fiends,  and  the  fierce 
hordes  of  rats  which  I  see  around  me  in  my  frantic 
moments,  worse  than  those  is  the  still  torture  now. 
I  hear  his  voice  now,  low  and  expressionless.  I 
would  to  God,  it  had  a  sound  of  anger,  or  of  re 
proach,  or  even  of  pity.  But  it  has  none  such, 
it  is  cold  and  passionless  and  low,  '  Caspar,  Cas 
par,  Caspar,'  it  says,  and  never  ceases,  never 
more,  never  less,  for  hours  upon  weary  hours  till 
mania  brings  relief  at  last.  I  have  heard  my 
name  called  thus  from  dawn  to  dawn  without  one 
fariation  or  inflection,  and  I  hear  it  now,  now 
while  I  am  talking  with  you,  'Caspar,  Caspar, 
Caspar,  Caspar,'  I  wonder  if  I  will  hear  it  in  the 
grave if  I  will  hear  it  in  hell." 

His  hands  crisped  together  and  a  throe  of  ago 
ny  distorted  his  face. 

"  Give  me  more  brandy !' 

Irrepressibly  shocked,  I  said, 

u  Hefferman,  let  me  send  for  a  clergyman." 

"  A  clergyman  !  for  me !  Caspar  Hefferman, 
the  Atheist !  the  president  of  the  Nameless ! — 


CASPAR     HEFFERMAN.         187 

"Who  have  lived  in  defiance  of  God,  and  mocking 
disbelief  of  life,  hereaftpr.  No  whining  priest  for 
1  me,  I  will  be  no  deathbed  convert  to  eke  his  cred 
it  out  withal.  I  will  die  Godless,  just  as  I  have 
lived.  Give  me  the  brandy,  that  is  God  enough 
for  me."  Again  he  emptied  the  cup,  and  bis 
mania  began  to  return. 

"  Paul,"  he  said  huskily,  "  I  will  tell  you  a  se 
cret,  keep  it  as  you  kept  the  secret  of  the  Blood 
stone.  I  believe  in  that  God  of  yours  now,  and 
in  that  other  life,  and  in  that  Heaven  where  my 
sister  is,  and  in  'that  Hell  whither  I  go — I  have 
seen  it !  But  I  will  not  ask  for  mercy  1" 

Then  out  from  his  lips  poured  a  tide  of  blas 
phemies,  he  writhed  in  his  bed,  the  foam  flew  from 
his  mouth  stained  with  the  blood  that  flowed  from 
his  bitten  lips.  His  eyes  glared  and  his  black 
beard  and  hair  seemed  alive  as  the  writhing  mus 
cles  moved  them.  I  fell  upon  my  knees;  not 
praying,  but  gazing  upon  him.  ' 

The  doctor  entered,  and  a  few  startled  faces 
showed  themselves  at  the  door.  But  before  the 
doctor  had  reached  the  side  of  the  bed,  the  giant 
form  was  shaken  as  though  by  a  convulsion, 
it  was  thrown  up  almost  upon  its  feet,  and  then, 
like  a  crashing  tree,  fell  down  at  full  length,  dead. 


188  THE    BLOODSTONE. 

With  a  new  sorrow  added,  with  a  new  resolu 
tion  to  preserve  my  silence,  I  went  out  from  the 
dead  to  the  living,  but  the  Dead  was  with  me 
there  also. 


s 

/•*>»    I 

'.  •  ••    '-*  •  -«*. 


NV  .-.'    •  •..-,  - .       •'  '•-'.'•    -'• 


^bit 


* 

XVII. 


•  •*          •    "•>  ** 
an&  $ui*r  Jlgain. 


££y  ETTERS  from  Paris,"  said  my  wife. 
I  1  I  took  them  abstractedly  and  opened 
them  and  read.  One. was  from  my  mother,  and 
one  from  my  sister.  Both  entreated  me  to  meet 
them  at  Aix  ;  and  I  determined  to  do  so. 

Since  HefFernan's  death  I  had  acquired  a  sort  of 
recklessness.  It  was  my  fate  that  I  should  suffer 
so.  I  had  done  no  harm,  when  I  joined  the 
Nameless,  and  I  had  suffered  worse  agonies  than 
the  vilest  criminal.  I  could  not — thouh  I 


*  '*  *?* 

190  THE   BLOODSTONE. 

tried — I  could  not  think  God  unjust;  and  the 
inability  to  do  that  produced  a  sort  of  fatalist  feel 
ing.  He  has  doomed  me,  I  said  to  myself,  He  is 
greater  than  1 ;  and  I  must  bear  the  doom.  If  I 
be  lost,  it  will  be  because  I  cannot  help  it.  I 
cannot  change  my  heart  and  soul  at  will.  I  am 
not  God. 

From  this  state  of  mind  grew  a  sullen  calm. 
The  haunting  Presence  came,  but  I  had  become 
familiar  with  it  now  ;  and  soon  I  ceased  to  heed 
it.  But,  that  was  only  another  step,  as  I  fancied, 
towards  utterdegradation.  I  said  philosophically 
that  my  imagination  had  grown  dull ;  that  my  ner 
vous  system  had  become  stronger.  I  ceased  to 
fear  meeting  my  wife  VI  had  no  more  dread  of 
my  mother  and  sisters,,'  ])ut  the  affections  were 
dulled  and  blunted  :  I  cared  little  for  any  of  them; 
they  Were  to  me  like  the  rest  of  the  world.  So 
after  informing  my  wife  of  my  mother's  coming, 
I  went  quietly  down  to  Aix  la  Chapelle. 

In  the  grand  old  Cathedral  there,  I  tried  to  re 
call  to  memory'  its  suggestions  of  heroes  and 
heroic  things,  but  the  attempt  was  useless.  I  saw 
people  performing  this  or  that  religious  duty,  and 

I  felt  that  I  would  like  to  do  the  same,  but  that 

i 
by  some  fatality,  I  had  lost  my  right  to  it.     And 


MOTHER  AND  SISTER  A.-G  A  i  N.  191 

so,  the  tomb  of  Charlemagne  and  the  beautiful 
church  built  over  it,  affected  me  nothing. 

At  the  Hotel  I  was  careless  and  indifferent  : 
people  were  waiting  there  impatiently  for  friends, 
who  had  been  absent  a  week,  or  maybe  a  month. 
They  fretted  at  the  delay  of  the  coaches ;  they 
surmised  possible  and  impossible  accidents  ;  they 
anathematized  contractors,  and  all  others  connec 
ted  with  the  travelling.  And  I,  who  for  nearly 
five  years,  had  not  seen  my  mother  nor  my  only 
sister,  was  as  careless  about  their  arrival  as  if 
they  had  been  utter  strangers. 

But  they  came  at  last.  From  the  coach  win 
dows  they  saw  me  long  before  I  saw  them,  and 
my  mother's  arms  were  around  my  neck,  and  my 
face  was  resting  on  her  heart  before  I  had  made 
a  step  from  my  position  to  meet  her.  For  a  son's 
heart  can  suffer  change  and  grow  indifferent  and 
chill,  but  the  flame  of  a  mother's  love  is  like  the 
lamp  of  the  Sanctuary  which  burns  forever  unex- 
tinguished  before  the  Presence  of  God. 

And  then  Flory  was  to  be  caressed,  and  her 
thousand  questions  to  be  answered. 

How  was  Marie  ? 

Well,  I  supposed. 

And  the  Baby. 

The  baby  was  dead. 


.92  THE    BLOODSTONE. 

And  then  rny  mother  and  my  sister  wept  for 
the  dead  child,  whom  they  had  never  seen ;  and 
its  father's  eyes  were  dry,  and  its  father's  heart 

was  indifferent. 

*"- 
On  our  journey  homeward,   ray  plea  of  illness 

and  fatigue  was  silently  acquiesced  in,  and  my 
silence  and  rnoodiness  was  allowed  to  pass  un 
questioned.  Besides,  this  was  the  first  visit  of 
my  mother  and  sister  to  the  Rhine,  and  they  had 
its  thousand  sights  to  watch  for,  its  Sc/tlosser,  its 
ruins  to  observe,  and  the  legends  of  each  to 
read  or  listen  to.  Then  also,  the  vines  were 
just  grown,  green  upon  the  hillsides,  and  the 
forests  were  putting  on  the  garniture  of  Spring, 
and  quaint,  unusual  boats  plying  up  and  down, 
and  all  that  constitutes  sight  seeing  was  attract 
ing  their  attention. 

But  when  the  first  week  of  their  arrival  had 
passed  by,  and  Marie,  familiar  with  their  presence 
had  begun  to  resume  her  mournfulness,  and  I 
shunned  them  as  before  I-had  shunned  her,  then 
they  grew  anxious  and  uneasy,  and  I  foresaw  that 
some  attempt  at  explanation  would  soon  be  made. 

Accordingly,  one  night  a  low  tap  at  my  door, 
announced  my  mother,  who  came  in,  kissed  me  in 
her  usual  gentle  way,  and  motioning  me  back 
into  the  arm  chair  from  which  I  had  risen,  seated 


MOTHER  AND  SISTER  AGAIN.  193 

herself  beside  me,  and  kept  my  hand  in  hers. 
"  Paul,  my  son,  I  find  you  very  much  changed." 

"  Yes,  I  am  older  now,  I  have  ceased  to  be  a 
child." 

"  A  son,"  she  said,  "  never  grows  older  for  his 
mother;  never  ceases  to  be  the  same  being  whom 
she. bore  upon  her  bosom,  and  cradled  in  her 
arms.  You  are  married,  and  happily  married." 

I  assented. 

"•  - 
"Yet  something,  some  grief  or  disappointment  is 

upon  you,  which  is  destroying  you,  and  not  you 
only,  but  the  gentle  and  beautiful  young  girl 
whom  you  have  wedded," 

"  Neither  my  wife  nor  I  are  very  well,  ma'am, 
that  is  all.  Our  child  is  just  dead." 

"  Is  it  grief  for  its  loss,  that  makes  you  shun 
your  wife's  society,  and  prevents  you  passing  a 

-  •  VP 

moment  with  your  mother  and  sister  ?" 
"  That ;  and  other  things." 
"  "What  then  are  these  other  tilings." 
"  They  are  interesting  only  to  myself,  ma'am." 
"  Paul,  when  you  left  me,  you  still  called  me 

'  mama' :  now  you  do  not  even  say  '  mother.* " 
I  made  no  reply. 
"  Remember,"  she  continued, "  that  I  was  your 

early  counsellor  and  your  confidant.     You  have 

never  concealed  anything  from  me,  why  hide  the 
17 


194  THE    BLOODSTONE. 

sorrow  that  oppresses  you  now  ?  God  gives  a  sort 
of  inspiration  to  mothers  when  they  counsel  their 
sons." 

"  I  am  not  a  mere  child  now,"  I  said  sullenly. 

"  I  know  that,  Paul.  Nor  do  I  wish  to  pry 
into  your  affairs :  nor  to  ask  for  any  information 
which  you  have  not  seen  proper  to  communicate 
to  your  wife.  But  it  is  for  her  that  I  .speak." 

"  Ah  !  has  she  then  se»t  you  here  ?•" 

"  No,  she  has  not  sent  me  here.  Neither  c#n  I 
gain  from  her  any  knowledge  even  of  her  own 
sorrqws.  She  speaks  of  you  only  with  earnest 
affection  and  tenderness.  But  I  have  been  a  wife 
and  am  a  mother  and  I  can  see  without  question 
ing  that  your  illness  or  your  reserve  is  ruining 
her  health. 

"  "Why  then  does  she  herself  not  complain  ?" 

"  Because  she  could  do  so  to  no  one  but  you, 
and  your  constant  shunning  of  her,  and  irritable 
reserve  in  her  presence  render  that  impossible." 

"  Mother,"  I  said,  "  all  this  may  as  well  end 
now.  If  I  had  anything  to  say,  I  would  already 
have  said  it.  But  this  inquisition  only  serves  to 
make  matters  worse.  Let  it  rest  here  and  for 

ever." 

i&  ' 

"  Well  my  son,"  she  answered  rising,  "  I  have 

done  my  duty,  and  done  it,  if  unavailingly,  yet 


MOTHER  AND  SISTER  AGAIN.  195 

with  ^ove  for  you.  I  will  intrude  upon  the  pri 
vacy  which  you  demand  no  more.  But  remem 
ber  what  I  have  said  about  your  wife.  If  you  do 
not  change  your  manner  to  her,  you  will  destroy 
her.  The  promises  which  you  made  when  woo 
ing  her  were  made  upon  your  honpr  as  a  gentle 
man.  And  you,  if  you  continue  your  present 
course  of  conduct  will  send  her,  her  whom  you 
swore  before  God's  Altar,  by  the  most  solemn  ^ 
and  holiest  vow  that  man  can  make,  to  cherish 
and  honor  and  protect  and  love,  you  will  send  her 
in  utter  mournfulness  and  brokenness  of  heart 
down  to  her  grave." 

My  mother  kissed  me  with  the  same  gentleness 
^as  when  she  entered  and  then  left  the  room. 

Wooing  with  the  pledges  ~of  a  gentleaian's 
honor;  "'swearing  by  the  most  solemn  and  holiest 
vow  that  man  can  make."  I  had  forgotten  these. 
The  blind  slave  of  one  vow,  I  was  Jiving  in  deliber 
ate  careless  habitual  violation  of  another.  What 
then  had  to  be  done  ?  Having  forgotten  one  oath 
was  no  justification  for  forgetting  another.  The 
kindness  and  attention  due  to  my  wife,  could  not 

break  my  bond  to  the  Nameless. 

/^*  £• 
But  then,  I  thought,  wliy  should  these  conflict 

with  each  other;   I  will  be  kind  and  loving  t6* 
Marie  ;  that  at  least  I  may  do,  without  forgetting 


196  THE   BLOODSTONE. 

my  pledge.  But  the  presence  !  How  to  get  rid 
of  that !  How  ccHild  I  look  at  her  and  not  see 
her  brother  ?  And  my  restlessness,  and  sleep- 
talking,  my  unguarded  moments  and  the  dreams 
which  might  reveal  all.  Alas,  what  was  I  to  do. 

A  piazza  was  erected  around  three  sides  of  our 
house,  a  portion  of  it  opening  from  the  drawing- 
room  being  furnished  with  glass  shutters  on  the 
outside  so  as  to  form  a  small  conservatory.  This 
year  most  of  the  plants  had  been  taken'out,  but  the 
shutters  were  not  yet  -  removed ;  and,  when  I 
thought  T  could  do  so  unobserved,  I  went  down 
there  and  threw  mysejf  upon  a  long  bench  at 
tached  to  the  house  wall  and  strove  to  reduce  my 
poor  thoughts  to  some  form  and  order.  And  as 
I  lay  thus,  a  window  was  thrown  open  just  over 
my  head,  and  I  heard  voices  from  the  drawing- 
room.  They  were  those  of  my  mother  and  the 
Doctor.  They  Were  talking  of  me. 

"  Pardon  me  madam,"  said  the  Doctor,  "  but 
have  any  members  of  your  family  or  that  of  your 
husband,  so  far  back  as  you  know,  exhibited  symp 
toms  of  mental  derangement." 

"  No  sir,  none,"  my  mother  answered,  "  Paul's 
father  had  fits  of  melancholy  of  a  light  nature,  of 
tener  than  colder  men  :  but  I  have  observed  that 
all  of  a  passionate,  impulsive  nature  are  subject 


MOTHER  AND  SISTER  AGAIN.  197 

to  such,  and  are  easily  soothed  out  of  them  by 
womanly  care,  .or  even  without  that,  they  are  of 
short  duration." 

"  Yes ;  I  did  not  know  but  that  Paul's  oddity 
might  be  referred  to  derangement." 

"  Oh,  Doctor  !"  . 

"  Temporary  derangement,  gnadiges  frau,  mere 
ly  temporary." 

"  But  he  has  never  shown  any  violence  Doctor." 

"  Oh,  that  is  no  sign.  There  is  a  calm  madness. 
Religious  madness  for  instance,  is  almost  always 
quiet  and  sad,  which  I  think  you  say  is  the  case 
with  your  son." 

"Yes,  but  it  cannot  be  that,  for  he  who  was  once 
so  pious,  so  cheerfully  fond  of  his  religious  duties  ; 
now  neglects  them  altogether.  Besides  which,  he 
manifests  no  uneasiness  whatever  when  the  sub 
ject  is  introduced.  Oh,  sir,  it  cannot  be  mania." 

"  Well,  madam,  I  will  try  to  be  with  him  more. 
I  will  watch  him  closely.  It  may  be  but  a  dis 
eased  imagination,  and  that  can  be  reached 
through  the  stomach.  Meantime  I  will  keep  a 
close  eye  upon  him." 

The  voices  were  silent ;  both  speakers  quitted 
the  drawing-room,  and  I  lay  there  striving  to  see 
a  glimpse  of  light  somewhere  to  guide  me.  All 
my  first  terror  had  been  renewed  by  that  one  ex 


198  THE    BLOODSTONE. 

pression  :  "  I  will  watch  him  closely."  It  was  Dr. 
Hoffnitz  who  said  this.  A  man  with  stern  un 
flinching  will,  who  had  sworn  to  avenge  the  death 
of  his  beloved  nephew.  Now  at  last  all  must 
come  out ;  the  fearful  secret  could  be  concealed 
no  longer.  What !  what  should  I  do  !  I  thought, 
until  my  brain  reeled.  I  planned  and  counter- 
planned,  resolved  and  changed  my  resolutions, 
until  mental  prostration  produced  physical  fatigue 
and  I  fell  asleep  upon  the  hard  bench,  there  in 
the  conservatory.  - 

How  long  I  lay  I  did  not  know,  but- when  1 
awoke,  all  was  still.  My  watuh  had  run  down, 
but  I  knew  it  was  past  midnight.  I  shook  with. 
cold  and  iny  head  ached  violently.  Silently  I 
crept  to  my  room,  and  went  to'  bed/"but  not  to 
sleep;  my  temples  beat  ^fitfully,  and  when  the 
chill  passed  off  it  was  succeeded  by  violent  fever. 
In  the  morning  I  was  very  ill,  and  old  Soc,  when 
he  carne  in,  was  desirous  of  calling  the  Doctor. 
This  I  sternly  forbade  him  to  do  :  but  directed 
him  to  say  that  I  wished  for  strict  retirement 
for  a  few  days.  I  made  him  promise  not  to  leave 
me  unless  when  I  told  him,  and  to  refuse  admis 
sion  to  asy  one  if  I  were  asleep  or  delirious.  I 
knew  that  if  I  should  rave,  it  would  be  in  Ger 
man,  and  I  had  no  fLar  of  him. 


MOTHER  AND  SISTER  AGAIN.  199 

And  there  he  watched,  faithful,  enduring  old 
fellow,  day  after  day  and  night  after  night,  ten 
derly,  and  unvveariedly.  Although  utterly  unac 
customed  to  think  of  any  command  of  mine,  ex 
cept  how  to  obey  it  most  quickly,  thi£  isolation 
struck  even  his  obedient  sense  as  Wrong,  aud  I 
have  more  than  once  heard  him  mutter,  "Why 
little.  Massa  Pol  dont  see  um  mudder  ?  he  too 
young  for  lay  there  all  alone.  Suppose  he  done 
gone  dead,  what  Missus  say  to  ole  Soc  den  ?" 
Such  soliloquies  would  be  followed  sometimes  by 
a  low  chuckle  of  satisfaction,  which  I  could  not 
at  all  understand  :  but  I  afterwards  discovered 
that  whenever  I  fell  into  a  deep,  and  tranquil 
sleep,  the  old  fellow  would  let  .in  my  wife  or 
mother  or  Flory  to  look  at  me,  and  see  how  I  was. 

So  then  for  three  weeks  I  kept  my  bed,  violently 
ill  but  without  delirium.  My  body  was  wasted  to  a 
mere  living  skeleton,  I  had  never  befove  been  so 
uttej-ly  enfeebled,  and  this  complete  physical  pro 
stration  relieved  my  over  wrought  brain.  The 
awful  Presence  of  the  dead  censed  to  attend  me. 
I  thought  much  and  often  of  poor  Franz,  but  ho 
haunted  me  no  longer,  and  when  my  disease 
broke  and  I  began  to  recover,  rny  mind  was 
more  tranquil  than  it  ha.d  ever  been,  since  the 
gubty  midnight  at  Braunsbarg. 


XIX. 


fast  f  rial, 


ONE  morning  I  awakened  and  found  myself 
lying  alone  and  oppressed  with  thirst ;  rny 
faithful  attendant  had  I  suppose  gone  to  replenibh 
my  carafFe  of  water  and  to  renew  the  other  bevera 
ges  which  1  used.  I  determined  to  rise,  as  much  to 
test  my  strength  as  to  procure  a  drink.  So  I  got 
out  of  bed,  slipped  on  my  pantaloons  and  dress 
ing  gown  and  went  out  of  the  room  and  alon 
the  passage.  But  I  had  overrated  my  powers, 
found  myself  suddenly  fainting  and  turned  to  re 
trace  my  steps.  My  strength  however  was  gone, 
I  had  already  begun  to  reel  when  I  perceived  an 


T  H  E  L  A  a  T    TRIAL.  20 1 

open  dnnr.  I  recognized  my  wife's  room  and  saw 
a  sofa  within  it.  I  had  no  time  for  thought,  bu* 
instinctively  staggered  towards  it,  fell  upon  if 
and  fainted  outright. 

I  cannot  tell  how  long  the  swoon  continued, 
but  when. I  opened  my  eyes  my  wife  was  bathing 
my  temples.  In  a  few  moments  I  was  better, 
and  with  her  help  I  raised  myself  into  an  upright 
position. 

She  had  unbuttoned  the  collar  of  my  shirt  to 
give  me  air,  and  as  I  sat  up,  out  from  my  bosom 
on  its  silken 'cord  swung^  the  cross  of  Bloodstone 
and  hung  there  exposed  upon  my  breast. 

Never  will  I  forget  the  look  of  loving  tender 
ness  which  my  wife  wore  as  she  helped  me  into 
an  upright  position.  Never  will  I  forget  the 
change  :  the  look  of  unutterable,  of  palsied  horror, 
with  which,  her  hands  clenched  together  and  her 
eyes  dilated,  she  stared  at  the  badge  of  the 
Nameless. 

Of  all  the  agonies  which  I  had  endured,  none 
had  been  so  great  as  this.  There  I  sat  with 
trembling  frame  and  terrified  *  eyes  fixed  upon 
hers,  marking  her  frozen  stare  of  anguish  and 
the  crisping  of  her  fingers  until  my  soul  shrunk 
in  abject  fear. 

I  bore  this  for  -one  instant — an  instant  long  as 


202  THE   BLOODS  TO  N  E  . 

eternity— rand  then  I  rose  and  moved  towards 
the  door,  and  a  maniac  expression  disfigured  her 
face,  and  she  sprang  at  me  Jike  a  tiger  and  clutched 
me  by  the  throat.  And  I  shook,  powerless  in  the 
gripe  of  that  delicate  woman,  and  loud  and  clear, 
— I  thought  it  might  have  waked  the  dead — loud 
and  clear  she  shrieked, 

"  Help  !  help  !  the  murdered  I" 

"  Marie !  for  our  dear  Lord's  sake !"  and  I 
strov6  to  break  from  her.  but  she  clung  to  me 
with  fearful  strength,  till  I  could  feel  her  fingers 
sinking  into  my  throat.  ^ 

"  Help  !  help  !  the  murderer !" 

"  1  am  not,. Marie,  hear  me.'\ 

"  Help  !    Help !" 

"  Will  you'  destroy  your  husband  ?"  I  said. 

She  tore  the  wedding  ring  from  her  finger, 
threw  it  upon  the  floor  clutched  me  again  and 
shrieked  anew,  fiercely, 

"  Help  !     Help  !  the  murderer !" 

I  heard  hurried  footsteps  approaching.  I 
plead, 

"  Oh  !  Marie,  for  our  child's  sake,  for  our  little 
dead  child's  sake." 

And  the  memory  of  her  child,  sank  into  the 
mother's  heart,  and  with  one  look  of  utter  abhor 
rence,  her  head  fell  back  and  her  face  grew  white 


•* 

T  H  K    L   A  S  T    T  HI  A  L  .  203 

as  death.  I  caught  her  in  my  arms,  but,  with 
tho  supple -strength  of  a  snake,  she  writhed  her 
self  free  and  fell  back  senseless  upon  the  floor. 

I  pinked  up  the  wedding  ring  and  fled  in  horror 
to  rny  own  room. 

I  heard  the  noise  of  people  -passing  rapidly  to 
and  fro,  the  calling  of  servants  and  ringing  of  bells. 
I  could  distinguish  the  Doctor's  heavy  tread  and 
the  clumsy  footsteps  of  poor  unhandy  Trudchen: 
but  I  moved  not  from  my  bed  into  which  I  had 
crept,  but  awaited  patiently  until  they  should 
come  to  seize  me.  And  the  long  day  passed  on, 
only  broken  by  two  short  visits  from  Soc ;  and 
the  longer  niglit  passed  on,  interrupted  by  period 
ical  footsteps  and  whisperings  in  the  passage. 
The  gray  dawn  followed,  and  the  sunrise  and  the 
full  blaze  of  morning,  and  then  about  nine  o'clock 
iriy  mother  came  in  and  told  me  that  Marie  was 
stricken  down  by  a  brain  fever. 

In  a  day  or  two,  I  was  well  enough  to  go  out ; 
and  an  irrepressible  curiosity  drew  me  to  her 
room.  Day  after  day,  I  sat  there-,  listening  for 
hours  to  her  ravings.  She  seemed. to  have  for 
gotten  her  season  of  blight,  those  bitter  mournful 
months  which  she  had  just  gone  through.  She 
talked  of  her  early -marriage  days;  of  her  brother, 
of  her  child,  above  all  of  me.  Oh,  how  earnestly 


204  T  ri,  E  B  i,  o  o  r>  s  T  o  N  r. . 

she  would  entreat  that  I  might  be  sent  for  ;  that 
I  would  conj£  to  her;  that  I  would  only  come 
and  speak  to  her.  And  when  I  would  go,  she 
would  look  at  me  unrecognizingly  "for'  a  while, 
and  then  with  a  shudder  would  turn  away,  to 
preserve  a  silence  of  some  minutes  and  then  to 
relapse  again  into  delirium. 

It  was  ten  days  before  she  was  pronounced  out 
of  danger,  during  which  time  I  was  recovering 
slowly,  although  I  still  remained  very  feeble. 
The  first  sign  of  her  return  to  sanity  was  her 
ceasing  to  call  upon  me,  and  after  her  convales 
cence  had  begun,  I  dared  to  face  her  only  once. 
And  then  the  terrified  abhorrence  of  her  look  drove 
me  back  to  my  solitude. 

My  mood  was  entirely  changed.  I  was  gentle 
and  sad,  when  alone  I  wept  frequently  at  the 
utter  wreck  of  my  life  and  prospects,  and  night 
after  night  I  would  lie  awake,  thinking  mournful 
ly  of  my  desolation  and  hopelessness. 

Once  as  I  lay  thus,  a  day  or  two  after  Marie 
had  been  declared  convalescent,  if  she  did  not 
fall  into  a  decline,  I  reviewed  my  last  winter.  I 
was  thinking  of  that  terrible  midnight  ride,  and 
was  recalling  the  look  of  the  lurid  furnace  fires, 
when  I  thought  I  beheld  one  at  the  end  of  my 
chamber.  I  started  and  rubbed  my  eyes,  but 


*  .   •  * 

THE   LAST   TRIAL.  205 

there  undoubtedly  was  the  red,  bright  streak. 
I  looked  another  way  and  went  on.,  with  iriy  rev 
erie;  but  the  first  time  I  turned,  there  again  was 
the  light.  Once  more  I  disregarded  it  and  once 
more,  after  a  few  moments,  I  looked  again  and. 
saw  it4  redder,  broader,  more  lurid  than  ever. 

Tlu>n  F  resolved  to  see  what  it  was,  and  left  rny 
bed  for  that  purpose,  "but  before  I  could  reach 
the  door,  there  arose  sounds  of  running  and  slam- 

• 

ming,  and  loud  and  fearful  came  pealing  through 

•       '  «-  •«*''  m 

the  midnight,  the  cry  of 

"  Fire  I" 

I  hurried  on  some  articles  of  clothing,  and 
opened  the  door,  the  corridor  was  already  in 
flames,  and  I  dashed  through  them  towards  my 
wife's  room.  Before  I  reached  it,  Trudchen 
burst  out  of -it  with  something  in  her  arms. 

"  Your  Mistress  Trudchen." 

"  Here,  Herr,  God  be  thanked." 
and  crash  down  tliB  blazing  staircase  she  rushed. 
I  followed  her  at  all  risks  and  reached  the  foot 
of  the  stairs  in  safety.   * 

Blinded  and  half  suffocated  I  paused  for  a  mo 
ment  to  collect  myself.  I  stood  upon  an  island 
as  it  were,  of  unconsumed  floor.  Behind 'me  the 
staircase  was  crackling ;  on  each  side  was  the  wall 
of  the  entry,  before  me  all  was  flames  and  masses 


206  THE  BLOODSTONE. 


of  charred  wood  and  cinders  dropping  from 
above.  My  strength  gave  way,  I  uttered  a  prayer 

and  sank  down. 

""ft  ' 

And  thea^the  flames  before  me  were  parted  as 

water  is  parted,  and  with  sleeves  and  hair  on  fire, 
spotted  with  burning  flakes,  yet  strong  and  irre- 
eistable  as  a  giant,  my  faithful  negro  bounded  to 
my  side.  He  caught  me  up  in  his  strong  arms  : 
swept  his  broad  right  hand  across  his  eyes,  and 
leaped  into  the  horror  from  which  he  had  em 
erged. 

He  paused  at  the  door.way  for  an  instant,  and 
I  saw  a  crowd  upon  the  lawn  who  shouted  as  he 

appeared.     The  fire  seemed  to  have  crept  along 

% 

the  beams  under  floor  and  ceiling,  and  to  have 
burst  out  in  several  places  at  once.  Now  here, 
the  beams  of  the  porch  had  been  consumed 
and  the  floor  had  fallen  in,  and  the  heavy  rafters 
of  the  old  fashioned  roof  over  head  were  all  on 
fire. 

This  I  saw  as  he  sprang  with  me,  below.  Two 
more  strides  and  we  are  safe,  but  before  even 
one  can  be  taken,  crash  fall  the  huge  posts  meet 

Ifc 

ing  each  other,  and  they  bar  our  way.  I  look  up 
to  see  a  huge  rafter  with  one  end  consumed,  shak 
ing  above  us.  Soc  too,  looks  up  and  sees  it.  One 
glance  is  enough.  He  presses  me  down  amid  the 


'*. 


207 


trampled  brands,  and  bending  above  me,  arches 
his  strong  back  and  braces  his  powerful  arms  to 
guard  me,  and  crash,  crash  swoops  down  the  im 
pending  timber  and  the  brave  arms  snap  beneath 
the  blow. 

Is  it  all  over  ?  Not  yet,  once  more  the  grand 
Did  inun  collects  the  remnants  of  his  enormous 
strength  :  love  lends  his  brawny  muscles  double 
power  ;  he  rises  with  the  effort  of  a  Titan,  he  lifts 
upon  his  massive  shoulders  the  heavy  burning 
beam  and  with  one  last  and  mightiest  heave,  he 
thrusts  it  far  from  rne,  and  falls  backward  upon 
it  as  it  lumbers  to  the  ground. 

"  My  brave,  my  noble,  devoted  Soc,"  I  cry, 
bursting  into  tears,  and  springing  to  my  feet. 
"  You  are  killed  for  me." 

His  lips  murmur  something  indistinguishable  : 
his  loving  eyes  rest  upon  mine  :  a  smile  of  in 
expressible  beauty  illumes  his  swart  features  for 
a  moment  ;  and  then  with  one  shudder  he  lies 
there  dead. 

Then  followed  a  confused  recollection  of  the 
dashing  of  water,  the  cries  of  men  and  women 
and  I  know  nothing  more. 

When  I  returned  to  sense,  I  was  lying  upon 
the  sward,  the  house  was  still  blazing  fiercely,  the 
body  of  my  heroic  servant  lay,  covered  with  a 


,  * 

%,      ?  « 


THE    BLOODSTONE. 

cloth,  quite  near  me :  and  kneeling  and  crying 
over  rne  was  the  poor  unhandy  Trudchen. 

"  Where  is  Marie  ?"  I  asked. 

"  There  in  the  Herr  Eustace's  house." 

A  new  soul  seemed  to  be  within  me.  Terribly 
burned  as  I  was,  I  felt  not  the  pain ;  but  h.urried 
over  the  two  lawns  which  joined  each  other  and 
through  the  open  portal  of  my  neighbor's  house, 

"  Where  is  my  wife  ?" 

"  There  in  that  room  :  I  wil  go  with  you." 

"  No,  I  must  be  alone  with  her." 

I  entered  the  room,  locked  the  door  and  saw 
my  Marie,  white  and  still,  lying  upon  a  sofa.  I 
sprang  across  the  room,  fell  upon  my  knees  be 
side  her,  and  clasped  my  arms  round  her. 

She  tried  to  push  me  away,  but  I  only  clasped 
her  more  firmly. 

"  Hear  me,  my  wife,  your  suspicions  were  all 
false.  There  is  no  stain  of  fratricide  on  me.  Lis 
ten  to  me  mvhe  own  one,  my  beloved,  my  darling 
Marie,  and  I  will  tell  you  all." 

And  there  in  that  position  I  poured  forth  all 
the  history  of  my  anguish.  1  laid  bare  all  my 
soul.  I  told  her,  how  I  had  fought  for  Franz  ; 
how  I  had  striven  to  save  him  in  vain.  I  told  her 
of  my  early  life-,  my  self  deception,  my  tnonoma- 


THELASTTRIAL.  209 

nia,  my  long  bitter  agonies  until  now  that  God 
had  given  light  and  calm  unto  my  soul. 

And  she  listened,  and  forgiving  me  all  the  woe 
I  had  caused  her,  wept  heavily  for  mine. 

Then  with  my  burnt  fingers,  out  of  my  burnt 
bosom  where  I  had  worn  it,  I  took  our  wedding 
ring  and  placed  it  on  her  white  emaciate  finger. 

The  shadow  had  passed  away  from  between 
us,  and  loving  heart  looked  clearly,  into  loving 
heart,  by  the  light  that  poured  on  us  from  the 
Throne  of  the  merciful  God. 


XX. 

r  Ittsi0n. 


MY  story  is  nearly  done.  At  my  mother's 
urgent  entreaties  We  determined  not  to  re 
build  our  house,  but  to  return  to  America  with 
Marie.  The  good  old  Doctor  unselfishly  persuaded 
his  niece  into  acquiescence,  and  the  promise  of 
a  speedy  visit  made  her  cheerful. 

All  our  plans  were  nearly  shipwrecked  by  the 
unexpected  and  violent  opposition  of  the  unhandy 
Trudchen,  who  bohaved  in  the  most  extraordina 
ry  manner. 


*   ' 

CONCLUSION.  211 

"  We  were  mad,  she  said,  to  think  of  taking 
a  poor  little  child  like  that,  pointing  to  Marie, 
among  black  men  and  beasts,  to  a  wild  country 
where  they  had  no  porcelain  stoves  and  could 
not  speak  a  syllable  of  good  German." 

I  suggested  that  the  Americans  were  not  all 
quite  black,  but  she  flouted  me  at  once. 

Did'nt  she  know  ?  "  Jt  was  easy  for  people 
who  wanted  to  take  other  people's  friends  away, 
to  pretend  to  forget  that  other  people  were  not 
entirely  ignorant.  Was  not  that  brave  old  Soc, 
(and  her  apron  went  up  to  her  eyes),  he  who  was 
lying  burnt  almost  to  cinders  but  cold  enough 
now  in  the  church  there,  wasn't  he  an  American  ? 

1  ^» 

and  was  not  he  black  ?" 

I  granted  that,  but  instanced  my  mother  and 
sister. 

I  mentioned  them,  Trudchen  said,  merely  to 
annoy  her ;  and  I  knew  a  deal  better.  But,  and 
she  put  on  her  most  wheedling  manner,  could  I 
not  just  leave  the  poor  little  wife  with  her  ?  She 
would  take  good  care  of  her,  and  keep  her  safely 
till  I  came  back. 

When  even  this  slight  favor  was  refused,  Trud- 
ciicti  became  outrageous.  She  hinted  that  I  was 
:  kidnapper  who  took  people's  children  away  from 
i.,oui :  she  plead  and  scolded,  and  finally  deolur- 


;    *      *        '  .  ,$*' 

212  THE    BLOODSTONE. 

ed  that  I  had  no  heart,  and  that  I  was  taking 
advantage  of  her  because  she  was  an  orphan. 

And  then  the  great  unhandy  warm  hearted 
creature  sat  down  and  blubbered  outright.  But 
when  she  was  told  that  she  should  be  dowered 
with  enough  to  commence  a  Gasthaus  and  should 
wed  and  be  happy  with  her  blessed  Peter ;  she 
became  consoled,  and  said  that  I  .had  always 
been  a  father  to  her.  So  she  went  on  until  we 
left,  breaking  all  the  glass  and  crockery  she 
could  lay  her  hands  on,  alternatively  scolding 
and  cajoling,  and  exciting  inexhaustible  merri 
ment  in  Florry  by  always  addressing  our  mother 
as  "  my  child,"  and  by  calling  me  "  Papa."  And 
now  she  and  her  Peter  are  one  flesh,  and  they 
keep  the  Gasthaus  zuni  Goldenen  Anker  near  the 
steamboat  wharf  at  Andernach. 

Soc  lies  buried  near  Franz  and  my  child,  and 
on  the  tablet  which  records  his  name  and  age  and 
faithful  services,  I  caused  inscribed  as  epitaph, 
this  verse  from  the  Canticles 

*.'*  - 

JLobe    is    Slvonfl    as 


It  was  early  in  the  Summer,  when  we  started 
down  the  Ehine  for  our  far  Western  Home,  and 
as  the  swift  vessel  swept  out  into  the  stream,  and 


CONCLUSION.  213 

I  saw  the  ruin  of  Braunsberg  fading,  grey  in  the 
distance,  I  dropped  the  cross  of  Bloodstone  into 
the  ru.shing  waters,  and  the  rushing  waters  closed 
over  it  forever. 


About  a  year  after  our  arrival  a  letter  from 
Dr.  Hoffnitz  communicated  intelligence  of  the  ex 
ecution  of  Heyne  for  assassination  at  Berlin.  He 
confessed  to  having  shot  Franz  with  his  own 
hand,  but  mentioned  no  word  of  the  Nameless. 

And  now  if  the  reader  have  still  any  interest 
in  me,  he  may  learn  in  the  next  page  where  I  arn 
now. 

I  am  at  home,  never  to  reside  out  of  it  again, 
in  the  fresh,  young  land  of  America.  My  pleas 
ant  house  stands  upon  one  of  those  delicate  penin 
sulas  that  jut  from  the  north  shore  of  Long  Island 
out  into  the  Sound.  There  every  breeze  blows 
new  health  and  every  glance  discovers  a  new 
beauty. 

From  my  own  windows  I  look  out  upon  five 
miles  of  gleaming  bay  framed  by  two  beetling 
headlands,  whereof  one  bears  a  tall  lighthouse, and 
between  them  over  sixteen  miles  of  Strait  I  can 
see  the  sunshine  brightening  the  white  churches 
and  homesteads  of  Connecticut.  Within  thoso 


214  THE  BLOODSTONE. 

headlands  at  the  right,  the  broad  waters  flow 
away  inte  invisibility,  and  to  the  left  again  they 
farm  a  forest  circled  harbor  where  white  winged 
yachts  are  wont  to  sleep.  There  up  the  western 
side  of  our  own  peninsula  the  tides  bound  through 
a  narrow  inlet  and  form  two  beautiful  lakes,  and 
far  at  the  end  of  the  upper  one  a  tall  white 
church  spire  watches  the  waters  like  a  hungry 
stork  "or  crane. 

lieyond.  these   harbors   are   new   necks,   new 

bays:    woody    headlands;    eoves    of   wondrous 

£'^\f  Jbeauty,  lustrous  in  their  setting  of  green  forest 

and.  suggestive  of  peaceful  thought,  of  health  and 
•.•fV 

calm  retirement  and  rest. 

Here  I  dwell  happilj'  with  my  mother  and  wife. 
Florry  is  married  and  lives  near  us.  We  have 
four  children  now,  Marie  and  Paul  and  Franz 
and  our  other  little  Marie  who  is  in  Heaven. 

It  is  about  six  months  since  Dr.  Hoffnitz  died 
and  I  was  called  to  Andernach  to  settle  his  estate. 
Here,  in  sight  of  all  the  scenes  described,  I  have 
passed  my  leisure  in  writing  this  record  of  my 
life,  with  the  hope  that  I  do  not  write  all  uselessly. 
I  am  a  wiser  man  for  the  sufferings  I  have  endu 
red.  I  can  say,  with  the  authority  of  experience, 
that  the  first  influence  needed  over  man  is  that  of 
Keligion  ;  and  that  religion  furnishes  him  with  all 


CONCLUSION.  215 

the  mutual  love  and  power  to  aid  and  feeling  of 
fraternity  that  hfi  ean  need.  He  is  not  formed  to 
bind  himself  by  secret  ties  and  unblest  vows  to 
any  portion  of  his  race.  God  made  him  for  us  all. 
Made  him  to  live  by  mutual  ties  and  love  recip 
rocal :  to  receive  the  affection  and  trust  of  all 
around  us  and  to  give  our  own  in  payment;  to 
show  an  honest  face  in  the  broad  light :  to  have 
an  open  heart  for  man  and  for  man's  Maker :  to 
shun  all  hidden  deeds  and  bonds  of  mystery,  the 
fruit  whereof  is  wild  remorse  and  isolation  and 
cold  distrust  and  ultimate  destruction.  To  be 
human  is  our  duty :  to  be  human,  that  so  we 
may  grow  divine  ;  to  live  in  brotherhood  with  all 
men  here,  hoping  for  a  son's  place  at  the  Father's 
Board. 

THE    END. 


*  € 


•^jEttfr 

*  <-5w 

-.** 


18927 


A     000  984  230     3 


